Dominus Black
by Starbucksmocha
Summary: Harry James Potter, the Boy Who Lived, isn't the son of James and Lily, and Lily wasn't a Muggleborn. Follow what Harry's life would have been like had he been born a Black and raised by Sirius's mother. Major AU alert! Spoilers for all seven HP books.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Dominus Black

**Author: **Starbucksmocha

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and everything affiliated with it belongs to the amazing JK Rowling. The premise of this story comes from Shadowface's abandoned work of fiction, Ophiuchus - which I have permission to use.

**Rating:** T

**Summary:** Harry James Potter, the Boy Who Lived, isn't the son of James and Lily, and Lily wasn't a Muggleborn. Follow what Harry's life would have been like had he been born a Black and raised by Sirius's mother. Major AU alert! Spoilers for all seven HP books.

**Author's Note: **Hi everyone! I am sorry for the delay - I was hoping my beta-reader would get back to me before I posted. In any case, these chapters have already been looked at, so I decided to go ahead. As for the _Seventh Magus, _I hope to have the rewritten chapters posted soon. Thank you all so much for your support!

* * *

**Prologue**

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, the current Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, was rarely, if ever, caught off-guard. However, the figure currently sitting in his office was a wholly unexpected sight, especially considering the enchantments that forbade entrance to the Headmaster's office to anyone without his express permission.

Still, he was not the most powerful Light wizard in the world for nothing. Albus Dumbledore carefully masked his surprise and instead cordially greeted his "guest" as he made his way over to the desk.

"Mrs Black, it is wonderful to see you again. Would you care for some tea?"

Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled unnaturally through the half-moon spectacles perched on his crooked nose. With his long silver hair and his equally long beard, Dumbledore looked the part of a great and wise wizard with an eternally youthful spirit. In stark contrast, the austere-looking woman sitting across from him appeared unnaturally aged, and her crisp robe, which matched her steely grey eyes, did nothing to counter the harsh planes and sharp angles of her face. Wearing an expression of extreme distaste, as though she smelt something rather foul, Walburga Black did not bother to return the polite greeting. "I want to see my grandson, Dumbledore."

Albus Dumbledore's gaze hardened slightly. "Your… grandson? Mrs Black, I am afraid your grief over young Sirius's death is understandably overwhelming you. Let me call St. Mungo's, and-"

Walburga's narrowed eyes and chilling voice stopped even the great Albus Dumbledore in his tracks. "Don't patronise me, you old fool. I am well aware it was you who orchestrated the rift between Sirius and I; I had to find out about the existence of the Black Heir from a _letter_, of all things! You will do as I say. You cannot hope to win against me, Dumbledore – the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black stands behind me." Her thin lips twisted into a mocking smile as Dumbledore's magic flared up in anger. "The _Daily Prophet_ would most enjoy learning that my grandson has been forcibly taken from his true pure-blood family, to be placed with Muggles – by Albus Dumbledore, no less. I am certain they – and the Ministry of Magic – would want to know that that those _Muggles_ are the sole protection you've provided for the Boy Who Lived."

Dumbledore inwardly seethed with anger. His hands were regrettably tied. How the old hag knew Harry was a Black, he did not know, but Dumbledore could ill afford to go up against her. As one of the oldest pure-blood families, the House of Black had a lot of power and political connections that even he, at the height of his power, could not simply dismiss. To attempt to do so now was likely to be political suicide. Dumbledore had been deplorably losing the war against Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and the wizarding world had only come out from the devastation wrought by said war thanks to the miraculous actions of a baby boy – the only Heir of the Blacks. Walburga Black had successfully cornered him, and he knew it.

After a pause, Dumbledore reluctantly said, "The Dursleys currently reside in Little Whinging, Surrey, in number four, Privet Drive."

Walburga Black gracefully rose from her seat and stared coolly down at a resigned looking Dumbledore. "You had best hope that my grandson is safe and unharmed. Meddle in our affairs again, and it will be the last thing you do." With that parting shot, she left Hogwarts for Little Whinging.

* * *

**Chapter One**

Rita Skeeter snorted inelegantly at the headline: _BLACK MATRIARCH TELLS ALL!_ Not really creative, in Rita's humble opinion, but she supposed the content more than made up for the lacklustre headline. Checking her watch – and sighing when she saw she was early – Rita smoothed out the pages that had been wrinkled when she had crumpled the paper in her fury at being scooped.

_The wizarding world was deeply and irrevocably changed two years ago when a baby boy defeated You-Know-Who, bringing about the end of his reign of terror. The date, __31 October 1981, was forever altered, and Halloween has since been celebrated to such heights as never seen before. Still, life has continued on, and the Boy Who Lived has mostly become a hero of a miraculous tale, remaining unseen and only known to be hidden behind one of the world's most impressive set of wards at an undisclosed location. _

_All of that changed earlier this month when a source from the Ministry of Magic disclosed that the boy hero had been moved "ages ago" to the home of Walburga Black, the Matriarch of the House of Black. Known as staunch supporters of Dark Magic, the Black family has produced some witches and wizards of dubious character, including Bellatrix Lestrange, who is currently in Azkaban Prison serving a life sentence for the torture of the Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom._

_Hundreds of witches and wizards have since sent owls and Howlers to the Minister for Magic, Millicent Bagnold, demanding that Harry James Potter be relocated to a safer home, away from the purported supporter of the Dark Lord, and dozens of owls requesting interviews with Mrs Black have garnered no response. _

_Until now. _

_It was a rather ordinary day when this humble reporter was personally requested for an interview with Mrs Black, to "clarify some matters regarding myself and my heir." This reporter wasn't sure what to expect, but was put almost immediately at ease by the hospitality of the Black Matriarch. Though unnaturally aged due to a Dark curse that also rendered her infertile shortly after the birth of her second son, Mrs Black is __a gentle and kind woman who holds no bitterness over the state of her appearance, nor the loss of her two sons at You-Know-Who's hand. This reporter had free reign over the entire Black Estate, though Mrs Black firmly insisted that the nursery not be included, in order to ensure the safety of the Boy Who Lived. _

_Having finished viewing the impressive Manor and its grounds, we sat down for tea in the rose garden before beginning the interview._

_Cuffe: Mrs Black, how did Harry James Potter come to be in your custody?_

_Mrs Black: That is actually not his name._

_Cuffe (sounding confused): Not his name?_

_Mrs Black: His name isn't Harry James Potter. It is Harold Ophiuchus Potter-Black._

_Cuffe (after a stunned silence): Pardon? _

_Mrs Black: James Potter, the sole Heir of the Potter family, was infertile, though no one – including James – knew until after he'd married Lily Evans. Lily, being a powerful witch and Heiress of a long-forgotten and magically dormant ancient pure-blood family, had access to many archaic spells and potions. Knowing they were desperate for a child, my eldest son, Sirius, best friend of James, offered to help, and with the aid of Lily's tomes, they found a way. Sirius's seed was implanted in Lily's womb, and James's magic and blood were added to the baby when he was born. I am not certain how it was all done, but Harold is as much a Black as a Potter. With all three of his parents dead after the attack at Godric's Hollow, he came to me, his only surviving grandparent. _

_Cuffe (sputtering): Did anyone know of this?_

_Mrs Black: Albus Dumbledore was aware of Harold's parentage and he strove to keep Harold from me. If it hadn't been for a letter left behind for me by Lily, I never would have known. Fortunately, I found out soon after their deaths, and was able to retrieve him from the horrible Muggle family Lily's Squib sister married into._

_Cuffe (aghast): The Boy Who Lived was staying with __**Muggles?**_

_Mrs Black: Yes. Terrible, isn't it? They were starving the poor lad and had put him in a cupboard under the stairs. Apparently, they resent magic in all forms, and took it out on poor Harold. _

_Cuffe (furious): __**WHAT?**_

_Mrs Black: That was my reaction exactly. _

_Cuffe: Is Harry -- Harold alright?_

_Mrs Black: Oh, he's fine now. I had the finest healers in the world look him over to make certain those horrid people had left no lasting damage. _

_Cuffe: Well, I'm certainly glad to hear that. These last few weeks must have been terrible for you, having to put up with all sorts of tales about you, when all you've been doing is taking care of your grandchild._

_Mrs Black: It certainly hasn't been easy. Harold's health and safety are my main concerns and when I had first brought Harold here, I did not believe the wards were strong enough to protect Harold from all forms of magic that might possibly be used for harm. And I had no guarantees that any officials the Ministry would send would not be corrupt. After all, Bartemius Crouch's own son was a Death Eater! And there are many and varied ways a disgruntled witch or wizard could impersonate the officials to try to harm my grandson. I could have used another property, but I wanted the Ministry to see Harold's everyday surroundings, and to make certain there wouldn't be accusations laid against me claiming I was trying to cover up Dark activities._

_Cuffe: Perfectly understandable, Mrs Black. But everything is alright now? The wards are secure?_

_Mrs Black: Oh yes, quite! The entire estate is surrounded by a ward that detects unauthorised magic use. Any unfamiliar magical signature present and… well, I don't want to reveal too much for security reasons, but consequences will be dire. And I do have permission from the Ministry of Magic to use any means of defence to protect Harold._

_Cuffe: So the Ministry officials have visited you?_

_Mrs Black: Of course! The Minister herself visited months ago, though for security reasons, that information was kept secret. Every square inch of the Manor was examined, including the grounds and the nursery. Of course, Harold wasn't seen, but the agreed-upon healers provided reports for the Ministry in regards to Harold's health and well-being. Minister Bagnold was more than satisfied at the measures I have taken to provide a safe and happy home for Harold._

_Cuffe: Now, I have to ask – your family has a history of supporting the Dark-_

_Mrs Black: So sorry to interrupt you, but I do want to point out that there is a difference between practicing the Dark Arts and supporting Dark Lords. I have __**never**__ supported You-Know-Who – and in fact, my eldest son actively fought against him! I do practice some Dark Arts – but only those that have already been approved by the Ministry for use. _

_Cuffe: Bellatrix Lestrange-_

_Mrs Black: Was a Black, yes, and I've been having words with her father, Cygnus, for years regarding her marriage to Rodolphus Lestrange. I have never approved of it, and Bellatrix has long been stricken off the family tapestry. Harold will be well-guarded and protected, and will only associate with those members of the family who truly belong in it._

_Cuffe: Well, that's certainly a relief, I'm sure, to witches and wizards everywhere whose lives have been saved by Harold._

_Mrs Black: He truly is a miraculous child. Just yesterday, Harold Transfigured his stuffed lion into a broomstick! _

_Cuffe (stunned): A broomstick? _

_Mrs Black (laughing): Yes! He certainly takes after his fathers. Sirius loved Quidditch like nothing else, and so did James!_

_Cuffe (still stunned): He was able to perform a complex Transfiguration at his age?_

_Mrs Black: Well, children have been known to perform some amazing magic when they truly want something, though Harold being who he is has much to do with it, I'm sure._

Cuffe had, of course, milked the interview for all it was worth, filling the second and third pages by holding interviews with the healers who had tended the Boy Who Lived, as well as Minister Bagnold. The Minister had ended her interview with a stern warning, stating unequivocally that Harold was more than safe and well-protected and that harsh punishment awaited those who might attempt to harm the baby boy. The healers unanimously vouched for the health and happiness of baby Harold, who, according to them, was an adorable little boy with brilliant green eyes and jet black hair. One of the healers even went so far as to predict that Harold would grow up to be quite a heartbreaker.

Rita let out a frustrated little scream, startling unsuspecting passers-by. This article was the only information available on the boy formerly known as Harry James Potter, and Barnabas Cuffe, the rookie reporter, had somehow managed to snag an interview with the Black Matriarch where she, Rita Skeeter, the special correspondent with the _Daily Prophet_, had failed. And to add insult to injury, said interview had just resulted in Cuffe's promotion to the editor of the _Prophet_.

Well, Rita didn't intend to let this slight go unchallenged. As soon as her contact turned up, she'd show them all just why she was the most feared reporter in wizarding Britain.

* * *

Rita swore under her breath as her new acid green robe was once again snagged and torn by the shrubbery. She would have changed into her Animagus form and simply flown to Black Manor, but she had Bozo, a new photographer recently hired by the _Daily Prophet_ – and thus rather green behind the ears and easy to manipulate – with her, and so had to do this the hard way. Rita had expected things to be difficult – it wouldn't do for the Boy Who Lived to be easily accessible to all and sundry, after all – but this was becoming rather ridiculous. 

Her source at the Ministry of Magic had warned her of dangers, telling her stories of people who had tried to glimpse the Boy Who Lived in his home and either failed miserably, or were found weeks later with no recollection of who they were. However, he had failed to mention that the forest surrounding Black Manor would give the Forbidden Forest a run for its Galleons. Had Rita known, she would have arranged things differently – and not worn her favourite new robe, of course.

Behind her, Bozo continued to huff along, grumbling at having to carry the heavy equipment. The ward which had been put in place for the protection of the Boy Who Lived, and which would trigger an alarm upon sensing foreign magic within its walls, was rumoured to be so sensitive that even the presence of a simple charm would bring about consequences so dire for the one who had cast the spell that it was simply easier to not risk such things.

As Rita cursed yet again, having found herself sprawled on the ground still wet and muddy from the heavy rainfall the previous night, she had to remind herself of the reason for this outing – and that it would all be worth it when she managed to accomplish her goal.

Ever since the defeat of You-Know-Who, the Boy Who Lived was naturally the hottest topic everywhere. After all, it wasn't every day a Dark Lord was defeated, and by a mere babe at that! And to top it all off, the baby had survived the Killing Curse, the darkest of the Unforgivables!

Never in history had a more extraordinary event been recorded. Already, every wizarding child knew his tale, and virtually every respectable witch and wizard had paid homage to the fallen Potters and Sirius Black and celebrated the defeat of You-Know-Who by visiting Godric's Hollow, the site where the miraculous event had occurred. There were even claims that the very room where the little boy had defeated the evil menace had healing powers. Personally, Rita thought it was all hogwash considering it marked the demise of a Dark wizard and thus was probably full of Dark Magic, but it kept her popularity up when she reported such things.

While there was an enormous amount of interest in the boy, it would have eventually died down somewhat had he not been sequestered away from the public eye. The Black Matriarch was a very stern and powerful woman, and she kept a tight rein over all matters relating to her Heir. Even the Minister for Magic was denied access to the boy hero. Thousands upon thousands of requests for photos and interviews were ignored. Owls bearing letters and presents for the child were not allowed onto the Black Estate; instead, they were re-directed to various charity organisations the Black family managed, who then donated it to wizarding orphanages and other worthwhile causes. If the sender was fortunate enough to have somehow obtained either a very rare gift or one the Black Heir liked, the gift was forwarded to Mrs Black, who then sent the sender a thank-you note, signed personally by the Boy Who Lived himself. Said note was the newest ticket to instant stardom; a must-have item for everyone who was – or wanted to be – anyone.

All of this contributed to the hype and mystery surrounding the Boy Who Lived, and thus interest in the boy soared. Cuffe had claimed the editorship of the _Daily Prophet_ following his "landmark" interview with Mrs Black. The healers who had personally seen the baby boy were highly sought after by every witch and wizard who could afford their care. And last Rita had heard, the _Prophet_ had been offering a reward of 500,000 Galleons to whoever first managed to nab a photo of the boy hero. While the money was tempting, it wasn't the only thing that interested Rita. She was after Cuffe's position at the_ Prophet_; or barring that, a permanent front page by-line, or at the very least her very own column, where she could talk about whatever she wanted without having to answer to anyone. And all Rita had to do for it, was traverse the thicket of the forest surrounding Black Manor, and get onto the grounds.

It had definitely sounded easier when she had first thought of it.

Rita despaired as she continued to march on endlessly; her sopping wet and muddy robe was doing nothing to improve her mood. But really, how large could this forest possibly be? She was sure she would see the undoubtedly well-groomed grounds of Black Manor soon.

* * *

Gladys Gudgeon finished her last sentence with a flourish. Quickly reading it over, she smiled giddily at her very first article. She sighed happily and sent the parchment to her editor with a flick of her wand before settling down at her new desk. She polished a golden press badge that proclaimed her to be a special correspondent to the _Daily Prophet_ as she absently mused about the reason she had come to be awarded the position. Just how had Rita Skeeter and Bozo ended up in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries with no recollection of who they were? 

Gladys shrugged indifferently before going back to admiring her press badge and daydreaming about interviewing celebrities. Gladys let out an excited giggle; there was that new upstart, Gilderoy Lockhart, a gorgeous and charming young man…

* * *

So what do you think? 


	2. Chapter 2

Hi everyone!

Thank you for the wonderful reviews! They certainly brightened up my day! As for what happened between Mrs Black and the Dursleys: nothing that couldn't be reversed or fixed in some way (after all, it wouldn't do for Dumbledore to use that as an excuse to take Harry away from her). I'll leave it to your imaginations to determine exactly what might have transpired. ;)

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Dominus Black, known to most as Harold Ophiuchus Potter-Black, woke up extra early on the beautiful morning of 31 July. It was his birthday today, and he was finally seven years old.

Barely pausing to throw on a dressing gown over his silk pyjamas, Harry – as he preferred to be called – all but ran down to the family dining room, giving poor Kreacher a scare as he just narrowly avoided a head-on collision with the house-elf on the marble stairs.

"Sorry, Kreacher!" shouted Harry, though he was far too excited to sound properly remorseful. Had his grand-mère heard him, Harry knew he would have been in serious trouble; a respectable wizard did not shout or run about indoors. But it was his birthday, and as was tradition on the morning of 31 July, his grand-mère was already waiting in the family dining room for him.

Just before he would be seen through the opened doors of the smaller and more intimate dining room, Harry stopped and paused to catch his breath. Once his panting had abated – his bedroom suite was all the way on the other side of the Manor, after all – Harry stood up straighter before calmly striding in.

"Good morning, grand-mère," said Harry, though his attempt at a refined greeting was rather ruined by the ear-splitting grin on his face. Harry stood on his tippy-toes and graced his grand-mère's cheek with a kiss, before sitting down in his seat at the table. As though that had been the cue, a huge breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, fried slice, mushrooms, hash browns, tomatoes, and black pudding appeared. Walburga's lips twitched as Harry wolfed down his food and drank his orange juice in its entirety without even pausing for breath.

"Harold," she said in a chiding tone that had Harry flushing in embarrassment. Harry knew he had broken at least a dozen rules of etiquette, but he couldn't help it – it was his seventh birthday, one he had been waiting ages for!

Wizarding tradition dictated that when a child – particularly the Heir of a family – reached the age of seven, he must be presented to all the acknowledged members of his family, however distantly related. It was a test, to see whether the Heir befit the family, and if he was deemed unsuitable for whatever reason, then another would be elected to take his place. The proceedings often became brutal, as many witches and wizards coveted the power that came with being the Head of a family. Harry had been training for months for this very occasion, and he had already gone over the extensive security measures with his grand-mère.

While Harry was certainly nervous, he was more excited than anything else. His morning would mostly be taken up by meeting all the family members, but a grand party celebrating his birthday would follow, where he would finally be introduced to children his own age.

Harry had never been allowed anywhere due to safety reasons, and while the Black Estate was huge, with its very own Quidditch pitch and forest, hardly anyone was allowed onto the property. And with his grand-mère so busy, Harry was often left alone with only the house-elves – Kreacher in particular – for company. Despite the boredom and loneliness, Harry had never even once considered disobeying his grand-mère; Harry knew there were still terrible people out there who wanted revenge for Voldemort's disappearance. Harry sometimes still dreamt of the shouts of his father and James, the latter pleading with his mother to flee, the screams of his mother, a shrill voice laughing, and a blinding green flash of the Killing Curse followed by a burning pain in his forehead.

Of course, the children who would be attending the party had been subjected to an exhaustive screening process by both his grand-mère and the Ministry of Magic. Harry already had in mind a few friendships he wanted to make from what he knew of them, and he couldn't wait.

Harry's thoughts were interrupted by his grand-mère placing the morning's _Daily Prophet_ in front of him. He had started reading the paper four years ago, when his grand-mère thought it best Harry acquaint himself with the wizarding world. Then, Harry could barely read, let alone understand what it all meant, but now he was more than proficient at reading and understanding all the articles.

Today's headline declared: _Happy Seventh Birthday, Boy Who Lived!_ Most of the front page was taken up by a photo of Harry standing by the Black Manor gardens, smiling and waving at the camera. It had been taken a few months ago, when his grand-mère thought the fervour and the sheer number of enquiries about him was getting too ridiculous – and dangerous. She had contacted the editors of various newspapers and magazines, and the bidding war had been rather fierce, from what Harry could tell. The _Daily Prophet_ had outbid the French magazine _La Loupe_ by only a handful of Galleons.

Barnabas Cuffe, the editor of the _Prophet_, had come by personally to interview him. The _Prophet _had had to print an additional 500,000 copies due to the enormous demand that followed its release. The interview had been rather short – Cuffe had been too awestruck and nervous, and had ended up spending most of the hour available for the interview stuttering and looking at his scar. Harry had, thankfully, been previously warned by his grand-mère that this was likely to be a frequent occurrence. Harry didn't think not dying was that impressive, but he had held his tongue and remained polite throughout the interview, not showing his impatience even once.

Today's paper largely reiterated what had been said in that interview. Cuffe had written a list of items Harry might enjoy receiving as birthday gifts. When Cuffe had interviewed Harry, he had asked whether or not Harry liked Quidditch, what position he might like to play, his favourite team and player, what his favourite colour was, and what his favourite food and sweet were. Ever since then, Harry had received a barrage of Quidditch supplies and memorabilia, Chocolate Frogs and Fizzing Whizbees in the mail. It had driven his grand-mère mad, and no doubt it would be even worse today.

Cuffe ended the article with wishes for a fabulous birthday from everyone at the _Daily Prophet_, and an advertisement for a special, one-time magazine exclusive that promised photos of the Boy Who Lived at his birthday party, to be sold separately for only one Galleon. That made Harry's mood sour slightly – he had forgotten that they would be present at his party, as well as many of the "important people" his grand-mère thought he should meet. Harry hoped he would find enough children he liked to keep him from dying of sheer boredom.

Harry sped through the rest of the newspaper to see if there was anything of particular interest. He noted the dates of the next International Confederation of Wizards and Wizengamot meetings, as his grand-mère held seats and would be busy then. Harry wondered if she would allow him to go with her this time.

As though she had read his mind, his grand-mère Vanished the paper before speaking. "No, you may not come with me to the Ministry. We've been over this, Harry. It is not safe."

Ignoring Harry's pleading eyes, Walburga summoned Kreacher. "Help Master Harry get ready for this afternoon." As she stood to leave, Walburga paused by Harry's side. "Go on upstairs, Harry. I know you will conduct yourself as befits the Heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. You'll do well. I'm so very proud of you."

* * *

Walburga smiled softly as Harry made his way down the marble staircase. In the soft green robe that matched the exact shade of his eyes – no easy feat considering the rarity of the colour – he looked just like a Black Heir should. 

Harry had barely entered the lavish drawing room when his name was called.

"Harold!"

Harry's posture straightened unconsciously at hearing his formal name, and a half-smile appeared on his lips.

"Grandfather," greeted Harry, shaking Pollux's hand firmly. His great-grandfather Pollux was a stately man who had taught him Quidditch the moment he had turned two, citing that if he was old enough to walk, he was old enough to fly. Besides, if he could survive the Killing Curse, then certainly falling from a broom wouldn't kill him. Harry was rather fond of the man. As Harry turned and met the eyes of his great-great aunt Cassiopeia, his smile turned a little more genuine. Harry let her draw him into a warm hug. She was his favourite relative, if only because she acted as if she were still a child herself.

Harry coolly nodded at his other great-grandfather, Arcturus and his daughter, Lucretia. He didn't like them – had never liked them – and they didn't like him either. Lucretia had lost out on being the Heiress of the Black family to Walburga, who, though borne of the second son of Phineas Nigellus, was more powerful and thus was deemed to be more worthy of the title. Her political clout had solidified further when she had married Orion, Lucretia's younger brother. During the war against Grindelwald, Arcturus had lost his magic due to a curse, and Walburga took over the duties of being the Head of the family. Though Arcturus's magic had returned a year later, Walburga had flourished and done so much for the family in such a short period of time that it was decided she should remain the Black Matriarch, despite her youth. When both Sirius and Regulus had passed away, Lucretia had thought the position would pass back to her father and then eventually to her, since she could still bear children. But with the existence of Harry, who, though young, was more powerful – both magically and politically – their hopes had been dashed.

It was only fitting, then, that Lucretia and Arcturus led the first "attack". Snide comments about his having less than half of the pure Black blood were naturally made, followed by questions about politics and laws regarding Dark Magic, all posed in rapid-fire French in hopes that Harry would be embarrassed by his inability to respond. However, their plan failed rather spectacularly. One of the first things Harry had been taught besides English and Latin was French, as the Black family had originated in France, and Harry had been schooled in magical theory, law, and politics by his grand-mère since before he could even read. Harry had never been more thankful that his grand-mère had insisted he study rather than go out and play Quidditch, even when he had whined piteously.

When his great-great aunt Cassiopeia mercifully rescued him, Harry roamed, meeting the other members of the Black family. Some Harry had never met before since they had very little Black blood left to claim, but they were still family, and he dutifully was cordial to them all. Most merely took a few glimpses at his lightning bolt scar rather than outwardly stare, and knew better than to ask questions about how he'd defeated the Dark Lord or how he'd survived the Killing Curse. Harry found he was glad for it.

There was only one other child who was his age – his cousin, Draco Malfoy. His hair was the lightest shade of blond Harry had ever seen, and he stood out prominently among the sea of dark heads along with his mother, Narcissa. If Harry hadn't thoroughly studied the Black family history and the family tapestry, he would have thought Narcissa was adopted.

The blond boy was obviously very intimidated by everyone, and particularly by Harry, no doubt due to having been raised with stories of the Boy Who Lived. Draco strove to hide it by acting haughty. Harry had to stifle his laughter – the boy was clearly trying to appear cold and aloof, but somehow ended up looking constipated instead.

During brunch, Harry carefully arranged it so that he was between Cassiopeia and Pollux. Due to the seating arrangements, Harry managed to avoid the veiled remarks of the others and was able to actually enjoy himself by debating the merits of fouling in Quidditch with his great-grandfather. Harry saw his grand-mère hide a smile at his antics, and the brunch went off fabulously.

Everyone was fairly pleased with how Harry had handled himself, especially Walburga. Even Lucretia and Arcturus could not find reasonable grounds to object to his being the Black Heir. When no objections were brought forth, Walburga raised her glass of champagne. "To Harold Ophiuchus Potter-Black, the Boy Who Lived, and the rightful Heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. My fealty to you, Dominus Black."

Everyone raised their glasses in salute and drank. To Harry's immense disappointment, his glass of bubbly was just a soda.

With the hard part over, Harry relaxed a little and the family presented him with gifts. Every year for his birthday, Harry had always received a racing broom not yet available on the market from Pollux, and this year was no different: Pollux had bought Harry a Nimbus 1700. Harry had quite a collection of fine broomsticks, to Walburga's constant vexation. She clucked her tongue in disapproval, though she knew better by now than to try and discourage either of them from anything related to Quidditch. Harry smiled at Pollux, feeling the envy of many at seeing the broomstick, particularly his cousin, Draco.

The reaction garnered by Cassiopeia's gift was quite the opposite. Cassiopeia, who travelled the world collecting and breeding magical creatures (including some that didn't even exist), always brought Harry a magical creature of some sort for his birthday. Harry had quite a menagerie: a runespoor, a snidget, a crup, a basilisk, and a unicorn.

The unicorn foal was the first creature Cassiopeia had given him, and though fully grown now, the affection they'd shared from when the unicorn was a foal still existed, allowing Harry, despite being male, to remain close to her. The runespoor had been given on his fifth birthday, and the discovery that Harry could speak Parseltongue had led to the presentation of his sixth birthday gift: a basilisk. Harry's grand-mère had still not quite forgiven Cassiopeia for giving a young boy such a gift. The basilisk, of course, could only obey Harry, and to ensure everyone else's protection, the basilisk was kept in a magically reinforced chamber where its deadly eyes could not accidentally kill anything. So naturally, after all the trouble caused by such a Dark gift, Cassiopeia went in the opposite direction: for his seventh birthday, Harry received a phoenix.

As every acknowledged member of the Black family was Dark, such a Light gift was very much frowned upon and caused quite a stir. How Cassiopeia had captured a phoenix in the first place was a mystery. Of course, the fact that the phoenix had not yet escaped its cage was amazing as well. Upon seeing Harry, the phoenix disappeared in a burst of flame and reappeared on his shoulder, its talons gripping him tightly but without breaking the skin. Walburga was not at all surprised; Harry had always had some affinity to animals. That blasted crup of his didn't allow anyone except Harry to come within a foot of it. Walburga wasn't about to complain. Not only was the phoenix priceless, but it was also far less dangerous than the basilisk.

After a few minutes of tense silence, wherein Walburga said nothing and Harry merely stroked the phoenix, the gift giving continued. Most were books, clothes, and toys; rather impersonal gifts, but Harry thanked them all nonetheless. None of the toys caught his eye, and at least ten of the books he'd received would have to be returned or given away, seeing as they already had copies in the library. Harry stifled his sigh; he couldn't wait for his gift from his grand-mère, which would be given to him later that night. His grand-mère always found something perfect for him.

With the exception of his great uncle Cygnus, Narcissa, and Draco, Harry's relatives finally left, and Harry breathed a silent sigh of relief. He had another ten years before he would be subjected to such scrutiny again, and Harry was glad for it.

"Well, dear sister, not that you need my approval, mind, but I heartily commend you. Young Harold will do the family proud."

Harry smiled in thanks and, with his grand-mère's permission, nodded to the adults before grabbing Draco's arm. "Come on, Draco, I'll give you a quick tour before everyone gets here."

* * *

Draco debated with himself over whether or not to demand that Harold let go of his arm. After all, while Harold might be dragging him unceremoniously around the Manor, Harold was also the Boy Who Lived and the Heir of the House of Black. 

The former title was one his father, whom Draco worshipped, hated. Draco had never been told the full story, but knew from eavesdropped conversations that his father blamed Harold for his incarceration for being a Death Eater. His mother, on the other hand, had never indicated one way or the other how she felt in regards to being related to the Boy Who Lived. As anything related to Harold was considered taboo at home, Draco had never even given it much thought – until his mother had been invited to the ultra-exclusive birthday party of the Boy Who Lived, to be held after Harold's presentation to his family. It was the first time an invitation had been addressed to Narcissa Black and family rather than to Lucius Malfoy and family – his father, a Malfoy, had been deemed as inferior. Draco, who had been told countless times what being a Malfoy entitled him to, had realised then that the Black family name held even more power than that of the Malfoys, and that his mother was much more powerful than his father, despite appearances to the contrary.

Draco still wasn't sure what that meant for him.

Draco was pulled from his thoughts as Harold sped up so that Draco was forced to almost run to keep up with Harold's longer legs. Draco scowled; he hated being shorter than all of his friends. Even Pansy Parkinson was taller than he!

Draco's scowl was quickly replaced by an expression of sheer awe when Harold opened the last door in a hallway and he beheld what looked to be a gateway to a wild forest. He followed Harold in, his head turning every which way to examine as much of the forest as possible.

"Grand-mère had this room built especially for me when great-great aunt Cassiopeia kept giving me magical creatures for my birthday. She actually got me a basilisk last year. Come on, I'll introduce you to him."

Draco came to an abrupt halt. "A b-basilisk? Are you crazy? I'm not going in there!"

"Scared?" Harry taunted, turning around to gaze at his cousin, looking at him the way his grand-mère often examined those who had the audacity to question her actions.

Draco for a moment seemed ready to flee, but in the next, straightened his spine and said, "You wish," though the words didn't come out as strongly as Draco had intended them to.

Harry merely turned around and headed towards the back of the forest, the door closing behind them ominously.

* * *

"And how is dear old Lucius?" Walburga asked as soon as the boys left the room. 

Narcissa's blue eyes narrowed slightly. None of her family had liked Lucius, especially Aunt Walburga; the Malfoy line hadn't been ancient enough for their tastes. Nonetheless, Aunt Walburga had allowed the marriage, because Narcissa herself had been so insistent and suitable candidates had been scarce. Still, Aunt Walburga had never hid her dislike of him.

"He is well," Narcissa cautiously replied.

"Has he interfered in your training of young Draco?"

Narcissa's eyes and voice turned as hard as granite. "My son is not yours to command, Aunt Walburga."

"On the contrary; he is a Black, despite the taint of the Malfoy blood."

"The taint of the Malfoy blood?" Narcissa said incredulously. "Your Heir is the son of a blood traitor, a Light wizard, and the daughter of a Squib!"

"And Harold is Dominus Black, and the Boy Who Lived, the defeater of the Master your _husband_," Walburga spat out the word as though the taste of it disgusted her, "bowed over, like the subservient filth he is. It will do well for you to remember exactly who you are."

Narcissa's jaw clenched. "I have not forgotten who I am, but I will not abandon Lucius."

Cygnus, who had thus far remained silent, regarded his only acknowledged daughter. "Even if he chooses to side with the Dark Lord?"

Narcissa turned her head, refusing to answer. Her father had abandoned her eldest sister Bellatrix when she had been sent to Azkaban, and Andromeda had long since been stricken off the family tapestry for her utter disgrace in marrying a Muggle-born. Should he not like her answer, Narcissa had no doubt she would be cast aside as well. Her father's loyalty belonged only to his sister, who acted solely for the good of the Black family.

"Guide that moronic husband of yours more carefully, Narcissa," Walburga coolly warned her niece. "The Dark Lord was defeated by Harold when he was only a babe; when he returns, Harold will be much stronger. Harold will have the support of this family as well as the entire wizarding world, and whoever opposes him will be ruined utterly. Even our familial connections will not spare Lucius this time."

Narcissa pursed her lips in anger, but gave a single nod of her head nevertheless. Her aunt's statement was true, after all. It was only due to Narcissa and her Black family connections that had spared Lucius from spending the rest of his life in Azkaban. It was she who had cautioned Lucius against carelessness, she who had made sure Lucius would never become so entrenched in the Dark Arts and the Dark Lord as to forget himself as her sister Bellatrix had. And when Lucius had been arrested for being a Death Eater, it had been she who had called on those in the Ministry of Magic who owed favours to the Black family to have her husband released.

Lucius had never been comfortable with the idea that his wife's blood was more pure and ancient than his. To soothe his bruised ego, Lucius had convinced himself that his connections and wealth were far superior, and Narcissa had never had a reason to inform him otherwise. And to this day, Lucius remained bitter over the fact that he had needed her help – the help of the Black family – to escape a life sentence. He resented her superiority over him, and so Narcissa had kept the history of the Blacks from Draco, letting Lucius all but brainwash their son into believing that the Malfoys were the most powerful family in the wizarding world. But it would no longer do; Draco, Narcissa was sure, already suspected the truth, and if even a fraction of what she had sensed from Harold was real, Narcissa would certainly need to take matters into hand to ensure her family would remain strong and powerful.

It was perhaps a good thing then that Lucius would not be coming to Harold's birthday party.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore frowned into his morning tea; his eyes were clouded with worry and were without their customary twinkle. It was a beautiful summer day and perfect for a lazy Friday morning; Dumbledore had been planning to take a book outside and read by the back gardens when the mood had been rather abruptly spoiled. 

Sighing, Dumbledore carefully put down his teacup, taking care to obscure the photo of Harold Ophiuchus Potter-Black. Really, how ridiculous! All this hoopla over a mere boy!

_This_ was precisely the reason why Dumbledore had wanted to place Harry with his relatives in the Muggle world; the last thing the wizarding world needed was a pompous and egotistical child with delusions of grandeur. Dumbledore – and the wizarding world – needed a hero who knew suffering, who knew humility, who could sympathise with the worst and the best of humanity, and remain strong in the face of adversity. A spoiled prince had not been in the cards for Harry at all.

How had things gotten so amiss? Dumbledore's reputation, though mostly recovered, was still tarnished from that fiasco a few years ago. He had had the moral high ground – after all, the Boy Who Lived, the paragon of Light, being raised by a family of questionable morals, long since been known for supporting the Dark? It was positively mad! And yet, when the _Daily Prophet _had published such lies, accusing him of neglect and mistreatment of the Boy Who Lived and undue use of influence over the employees of the Ministry of Magic, the public had readily swayed over to Mrs Black's side. Many Light families had remained stalwart at first, knowing better than to trust all they'd read, but months and years later, with all the good Walburga Black had done for the wizarding world, the past had quickly been forgotten. They sang her praises while looking down at him in contempt for daring to question the grandmother of their child Saviour.

Why could they not see that the Black Matriarch was a nundu in puffskein's clothing? Dumbledore's eyes betrayed his frustration. Although he had not been invited, prominent Light families who had pure-blood children Harold's age had been extended an invitation to Harold's birthday party. Dumbledore had personally visited them – as some of them were still under his influence – to see if their children could be made to befriend Harold. Unfortunately, the Weasleys – who were his biggest supporters – were on vacation, celebrating Bill's appointment as Head Boy and Charlie's as Quidditch Captain, and they could not make it back in time for the party. And although Cedric had promised to try his best, the Diggorys' only son was too old to be more than a mere acquaintance of Harold's. Dumbledore's reception at Macmillans' and Abbotts' had been too formal for Dumbledore to entrust them with his plans, and he had not been received well at the Brocklehursts', Goldsteins', or McDougals' at all.

But there was still a chance that Harold could be moulded to be the hero that the world needed him to be – once he was away from his grandmother's influence and at Hogwarts, where he would be watched closely and guided carefully.

So Dumbledore would plan, and he would wait.

* * *

By the time Draco had caught up with Harry, he was already in the middle of introducing the various creatures to the newest addition to the family. Draco stared in wonder at what could only be a unicorn, a snidget, and a runespoor. The crup that was growling at him was ignored in favour of staring entranced at the golden snidget. 

"How did you get those? They're illegal!" Draco said, interrupting Harold, who was trying to name the phoenix perched regally on his shoulder.

Scowling, Harry turned towards the blond boy, careful to not dislodge the as yet unnamed phoenix. Knowing what his cousin was fascinated by, Harry raised his hand in the air and had to wait only a few moments before the snidget gently landed on top of his fingers.

"All the magical creatures in here were a gift from my great-great aunt, and the Ministry had no problems with my keeping them when they saw the sanctuary grand-mère had had built."

When Draco looked as though he might try to grab the snidget, Harry lightly grazed the leg of the bird and the snidget flew into the air.

"Don't come any closer; Castus won't like that."

"Castus?" echoed Draco, still entranced by the snidget that was flying through the air.

"The unicorn? And stop staring at Aurum – the golden snidget – you're making him uncomfortable."

Draco forced his eyes away, trying to conceal his envy. Draco doubted his father could get him a golden snidget; even with all the wealth that was at their disposal, Draco wasn't the Boy Who Lived and so would not be granted that special privilege.

"The crup at your feet is called Fortis, and the runespoor heads are Reputo, Somnium, and Ira."

"A bit heavy on Latin, aren't you?" Draco said snidely, jealousy colouring his tone.

Harry shrugged indifferently. "I started with Castus, and it just seemed right I should continue. Besides, they're great names." Turning to the phoenix on his shoulder, Harry said, "I think I'll name you… Credo."

When the phoenix didn't object, Harry nodded before walking towards the only door in the forest.

"Don't they fight?" Draco asked, curious despite himself.

"The forest is Charmed to prevent any fights from occurring within its confines, and each of the creatures has their own part of the forest where the others aren't allowed to enter. The only one who's sectioned off is Asper, and that's because his stare would kill them all."

Before Draco could say anything in response, Harry opened the door with a flourish.

* * *

**Translation of the names:**  
Castus: pure  
Aurum: gold  
Fortis: strong  
Reputo: think  
Somnium: dreamer  
Ira: wrath  
Credo: believe, trust  
Asper: violent 

A note about Harry in this story: this certainly won't be a Super!Harry story, nor is Harry a genius. His current knowledge of magical theory and politics is really just a regurgitation of his grandmother's teachings. It won't be until much later that Harry truly understands everything he's learning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Harry rolled his eyes as Draco continued to wail at his mother. Narcissa was crooning softly to soothe her son but Draco would not be calmed. His grand-mère would never tolerate this kind of behaviour, especially in front of the others, even if they were family. Unfortunately, his grand-mère had long since left, as she had needed to go over the last-minute details with the Aurors and the house-elves before the guests arrived. Harry inwardly sighed; if it wouldn't be undignified, he would stuff his fingers into his ears to block out the awful noise. Honestly, what a baby! Harry had already apologized – what more did Draco want? And really, how was Harry to know Asper would lunge at Draco like that the moment he'd opened the door?

Admittedly, Asper was a basilisk, but he had never done _that_ before! And it wasn't as though Draco had been bitten or anything! Asper was nothing if not obedient – he had stopped inches from Draco's face at Harry's command, even though he had not understood the reason he couldn't eat the small human.

As Draco's temper tantrum hit a new pitch, Harry wished he had let Asper eat Draco after all. Surely the lecture and punishment he would receive would be worth not having to suffer through this! Narcissa was trying desperately to quieten her son, but it wasn't working. His great-uncle Cygnus seemed oblivious to all the commotion, occupied as he was with the quarterly reports from the Black charity organisations he managed. Harry thought he might also have discretely cast a spell to muffle all the noise.

Thankfully, Narcissa was soon able to sufficiently bribe her son. The piercing wails stopped, and just in time it seemed – Kreacher appeared and announced the arrival of guests in the antechamber.

* * *

Harry let out a silent sigh of relief when the last of the guests left to mingle after having been personally greeted by the famous Boy Who Lived. His patience had been sorely tested by all the questions, expressions of thanks, and avid stares – Harry doubted he could have maintained his calm demeanour had he been forced to continue to play the gracious hero for even one more second. 

Flexing his hand carefully to work out the kinks he'd gotten shaking all those enthusiastic and reverent hands, Harry smiled in thanks at Kreacher who handed him a cold glass of butterbeer. Taking advantage of the momentary respite, Harry leaned against the wall and took a grateful sip of the cool liquid.

Unfortunately the break didn't last long; Harry spotted the German Minister for Magic heading his way. Sighing inaudibly, Harry quickly glanced about the room and saw the perfect excuse to escape from the clammy hands and the horrible breath of the German Minister: the children Harry had been introduced to earlier on in the afternoon. There were fifteen of them in all, and were all his age or older; the oldest was Marcus Flint, a second year Hogwarts student. All the children were around Flint, no doubt wanting to hear stories of Hogwarts.

The children had all been very excited and awed to meet Harry, and had been quite nervous around him, although many had tried their best to pretend otherwise. A few of them had been more successful than others, but it was all too clear Harry was light years out of their league. Of course, Harry was the Black Heir and the Boy Who Lived; the expectations and his training differed rather dramatically from every other wizarding child in the world.

His genial smile firmly affixed for the _Daily Prophet_ photographer, Harry casually sauntered over. Harry had more than done his part; he had met the "who's who" of the wizarding world – and then some – and Harry was more than ready to make his escape. As Harry neared, he heard his cousin Draco boasting to the others, claiming he was Harry's best mate, when in reality they had only met a few hours earlier. Harry discretely rolled his eyes. Draco was turning out to be annoying and insufferable; unfortunately, he was family, and so Harry was stuck with him. Perhaps, Harry thought hopefully, Draco would improve on further acquaintance. He could dream, at least.

His grand-mère had taught him the importance of having valuable friends and allies, and these children were the candidates she'd approved. All were pure-blood, and had wealth and connections that, although nowhere near that of the Blacks, were quite sufficient to be Harry's playmates. Out of all of them, the only one Harry was truly interested in was Neville Longbottom, who was currently standing away from the others in a secluded corner, looking miserable.

Ever since his grand-mère had told him about Neville, Harry had felt a connection towards the boy. Neville was only a day older than Harry himself, and could easily have been the one the prophecy had named. And like Harry, he had lost his parents, although they were still alive. Harry had long since wanted to meet Neville, the boy who had almost been the Boy Who Lived.

"Neville Longbottom, right? Happy belated birthday," Harry said, and tried not to laugh when Neville jumped.

The round-faced boy seemed shocked at being spoken to, and just barely remembered to thank him. When Neville didn't say anything else, Harry began a simple conversation interjected with questions, trying to draw the boy out. Neville was awed and nervous, but Harry's friendly demeanour eventually won over Neville's timidity, and soon the boy was responding enthusiastically.

When Harold did not even deign to glance in Draco's direction, Draco, his pale face flushed with anger and humiliation at the perceived snub, approached the pair, flanked by his friends.

"Don't you know, Harold? Longbottom here is a Squib. How in Merlin's name did you score an invitation to _this_ party, Longbottom? Harold, bit of a friendly advice: you do not want to make friends with _his_ sort."

Neville's face was suffused with mortification and anger as Draco looked on in satisfaction. Harry felt pity for Neville – the boy was widely believed to be a Squib because he hadn't shown any signs of magic yet. But Harry's grand-mère disagreed; she thought the trauma Neville had experienced when he was only a babe was the reason Neville didn't show any signs of magic, rather than a lack of magic on his part. Draco was being quite callous and rude, and rather impolitic too, since Lily had come from a Squib line. Draco had just insulted Harry's mother, and Harry wasn't about to let that go. Harry carefully rose from his seat and casually brushed off nonexistent dust from his robe as he coolly stared down at his cousin.

"My grand-mère issued the invitations to the Longbottoms and intends for Neville and I to be playmates. And I'll have you know that while my mother was from a Squib line her blood was more pure than yours will ever be."

Draco paled rather dramatically as his faux pas became clear. He had not only insulted the boy who had been picked out of all of them, but Harry's mother and the Black Matriarch as well. Blaise Zabini, who had been standing by Draco, subtly moved away; Pansy Parkinson remained beside Draco rather awkwardly, unsure of what to do, while Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe did not even seem to realize something had happened.

Without a single glance towards Draco, Harry headed straight for his grand-mère – who was conversing with several members of the International Confederation of Wizards, no doubt debating over some policy or other. As though she had been waiting for Harry to make his move, Walburga ended the conversation with the ICW members and approached him.

Though none of the children could make out what was said, no one could mistake the sharp glance the Black Matriarch threw Draco. Pansy, under the guise of speaking to Daphne Greengrass, left Draco's side, and Draco felt the betrayal and humiliation keenly. Draco anxiously watched as the Matriarch and her Heir conversed for a few moments, until, after a nod from the Matriarch, Harry returned.

Acknowledging the strategic rearrangements with a quirk of an eyebrow, Harry said, "Grand-mère says I can show you the Quidditch pitch, and that we can play a game or two. So come on – let's go flying!"

As the group quickly made their way outside, Draco lagged behind, trying to swallow his pride and apologise. Just as Draco had gathered up the courage to approach Harold, he spotted the brooms and the Quidditch equipment lying neatly on the grass. Everyone oohed over the broomsticks – they were the best racing brooms available on the market, and Harry owned at least three of each model.

"Does everyone know how to fly? We certainly have enough brooms for everyone."

All thoughts of faux pas and apology were completely forgotten. Draco bragged about his extraordinary flying skills loudly enough to Vince and Greg so that everyone else heard too. Rolling his eyes – not bothering to disguise them this time – and sighing, Harry moved away from his embarrassment of a cousin towards where few of the other children were standing, looking either self-conscious or terrified.

"If you don't know how to fly, I'll be more than happy to show you, and I'm sure the others will too."

"Why do you have so many of these, Black?" Marcus Flint asked with open admiration, his hand stroking the glistening handle of the Nimbus 1500.

"They were gifts," Harry said simply. When Draco's insufferable boasts became too much to bear, Harry held out his hand, and Kreacher brought over the Nimbus 1700 for him. It didn't take long until everyone realised Harry held a broomstick model that hadn't yet been released; Flint, in particular, appeared to be drooling. Glancing over at Draco, Harry expertly mounted his Nimbus and took off.

The new Nimbus handled much better than the old one, and it was faster too, and Harry put the additional speed to good use. He soared through the sky, plunged at breakneck speeds, took sharp turns… Eventually, Harry slowed down and gracefully landed in front of the group.

Kreacher, who was used to Harry's flying routine, had a cool glass of water ready. Harry inwardly smiled at the looks of awe – and from Draco, envy and resentment – as he took careful sips of the water. Since his cousin's jaw was still hanging open, Harry took the initiative to close it for him, smiling triumphantly all the while.

Everyone broke out of their stupor soon enough and began to babble excitedly. Marcus was amazed at Harry's flying skills, and assured Harry he would easily be able to join a Quidditch team in his first year, despite the rule that forbade first years from having their own broom. Many examined the broomsticks available and took flight, though they remained at only a few feet above the ground and at relatively slow speeds. Eventually, those who knew how to fly began to teach those who didn't, until everyone was in the air – all that is, except for Neville Longbottom.

"Why aren't you flying, Neville?" Harry asked.

Neville's face turned bright red. "I-I c-c-can't."

"Are you afraid of heights?"

When Neville shook his head, Harry said softly, "Is it because you think you don't have enough magic?"

Neville's silence was enough of an answer. Harry motioned for Neville to come sit behind him on his broomstick. Harry coaxed Neville until the boy stopped hesitating and sat on the broom.

"Alright, here we go. Hang on tight!"

As Harry slowly rose into the air, Neville's breath caught in his throat. Harry didn't go quite as fast since he had trouble manoeuvring with the added weight on his broom, but it was enough for Neville, and the round-faced boy was soon laughing delightedly. They were all having such a good time – even Draco – that when Kreacher summoned them back down, there were quite a few disappointed groans.

"Mistress is calling yous for dinner, Master."

"All right. Tell grand-mère we'll be there soon."

With the help from the house-elves, the children were once again looking prim and proper, and with flushed cheeks and bright eyes, they entered the Manor.

* * *

The party was a success. By the end of the evening, Harry and Neville were as thick as thieves, and Harry promised to owl several others. The only disappointment came in the form of Draco, who Harry did not like at all. It was only with the extreme effort on Narcissa's part that had spared Draco from being banned from Black Manor altogether. Walburga was still displeased, and Draco knew he'd be hearing about it from his mother the moment they returned home. 

When all the guests had departed, Walburga and her Heir exchanged satisfied smiles. Harry managed to wait all of thirty seconds before blurting out, "So what did you get me for my birthday, grand-mère?"

Walburga sighed indulgently before pulling out a thin box that was exquisitely wrapped. "Happy seventh birthday, Harry."

Harry suppressed the urge to simply tear through the wrapping paper; instead, he took his time to undo the ribbon and carefully opened the box. Seeing the ebony wand, Harry gasped in delight.

"That wand belonged to your father. It won't be as good as the one you'll get from Ollivander's, but it will do for now. The Ministry has lifted the underage restriction on magic for you as a gift. As such, I have hired instructors for you – they will start Monday. I expect you to do your best – I will not have you attend Hogwarts ignorant."

Harry threw his arms around his grand-mère. "I promise I won't let you down. Thank you, grand-mère!"

* * *

Harry carefully scrutinized the people standing beside his grand-mère. There were eight in total, five men and three women. They were all staring at him in awe, and Harry stifled a groan; all the attention was becoming rather tiresome. 

"This," said Walburga, pointing to a tall, dark-haired man immediately to her right, "is Gawain Robards. He works for the Ministry of Magic as an Auror, and he will be in charge of your security whenever you step a foot outside the Manor's wards." Robards, who was the youngest one there, nodded at him in greeting, although Harry had a feeling the Auror would have preferred to shake his hand.

"Bathilda Bagshot, Libatius Borage, Newt Scamander, Phyllida Spore, Emeric Switch, Quentin Trimble, and Miranda Goshawk will be your teachers in various subjects. Trimble and Goshawk will also be part of your security. A schedule has already been worked out; I expect you to work hard and learn everything they have to teach you."

Harry, whose eyes had widened in recognition of the names from the variety of books in the Black Library as well as the Chocolate Frog cards, had to breathe deeply and force himself to calm down. After all, it wouldn't do for them to witness the Black Heir behaving in the most plebeian manner. Harry greeted them all pleasantly and settled for merely smiling at his grand-mère in thanks. Harry knew it would have taken even his grand-mère a great deal of effort to gather some of the greatest witches and wizards alive as his tutors. He would be very well learnt before he even attended Hogwarts. Harry couldn't wait to get started.

* * *

So what did you think? Please review and let me know! 


	4. Chapter 4

Hi everyone!

I'm still ahead by a few chapters, so I thought I'd post this now. I almost thought I wouldn't be able to, as the site wasn't cooperating. Glad it finally worked!

This is the longest chapter yet by far – it might be the longest one I've ever written! A lot of things in this chapter will be quite familiar to you, as I've used several lines from the book. If you recognize something, it's not mine. Anyway, thank you all for your wonderful reviews – they're even better than coffee (and considering what a caffeine addict I am, that's saying something!).

Just to answer a few questions: Walburga Black won't die in this one (or at least not for a good while yet). As we know, in canon, it seems like the Blacks have really short lifespan compared to most wizards. I don't know why that is, but in Mrs Black's case, I like to think she died in part due to loneliness. Since she has family and an Heir who she cares for, I don't think she'll be gotten rid of that easily. So she's safe! There are more notes at the end (because I don't want to spoil anything). Enjoy, and don't forget to tell me what you think!

* * *

**Chapter Four**

"_Expelliarmus_!_ Stupefy_!"

"_Protego_!_ Reducto_!"

"_Protego_!"

As Harry began to cast the Severing Charm, Kreacher popped into the duelling chamber and immediately fell down on all fours with a squeak. "Master Harry, Mistress is requesting for Master."

When Harry nodded in acknowledgement, Kreacher shakily popped back out. The poor house-elf hadn't been the same since he'd accidentally appeared on the path of a curse and had found himself violently thrown against the wall of the duelling chamber. Kreacher could have defended himself, but as it had been his Master who had sent the curse, Kreacher had done nothing to counter it. Although there was nothing physically wrong with Kreacher, the poor house-elf was so jumpy and nervous, his grand-mère was thinking of having Kreacher put down and putting his head on a plaque, like the other elderly house-elves who had loyally served the Black family. Although the house-elves thought it to be the greatest honour that could be bestowed upon them, Harry thought it was a disgusting tradition. It didn't matter that Harry wouldn't see it; he hated the very idea of putting Kreacher's head on a plaque.

"Well, that'll be the end of the lesson then. Your duelling techniques are coming along quite nicely; I'm sure your grandmother will be pleased to hear it. But make sure you keep practicing – being at Hogwarts is no excuse for slacking off work."

"I haven't been accepted yet," Harry reminded Quentin.

"Pish posh. It's only a matter of time. Harry Ophiuchus Potter-Black, the Boy Who Lived, not go to Hogwarts? What preposterousness!"

Harry smiled fondly at his duelling instructor. He was going to miss Quentin – and all of his other tutors, even the elderly – and half-deaf – Bathilda Bagshot.

Bidding Quentin a farewell, Harry headed towards his grand-mère's study.

"Neville!" Harry said with delight, spotting the round boy. "What are you doing here? I thought you were at your great-uncle Algie's!"

The soon to be eleven year old Neville Longbottom broke into a huge smile. "I got my Hogwarts letter this morning! My family is so pleased; they've decided to throw me a party. I came by to see if you want to come."

"Of course I'll be there!" Harry clapped Neville on the back, offering his congratulations. Harry and his grand-mère had been the only two people who had had no doubts Neville would be accepted into Hogwarts. Not having shown any sign of magic until the age of eight – and Harry inwardly shuddered at the lengths Neville's family had gone to force _some_ magic out of Neville – Neville had been worried he wouldn't have enough magic for Hogwarts. Thankfully, having been friends with Harry – and eventually Draco – these past few years had helped boost Neville's self-confidence immensely. Although still rather shy and timid among strangers, Neville could be quite bold when among those he knew. Harry fondly remembered the day when Neville finally stood up to Draco; the blond had been acting like a prat all morning, and Neville had had enough. Draco had been so shocked at the reprimand he'd gotten from the shy, push-over Neville that he had literally been stunned into silence. Draco had then laughed and shaken Neville's hand for finally showing his "Gryffindor sensibilities". The two of them had gotten along quite well since.

The beginning of Harry's friendship with Draco was harder to define, as there hadn't been a definite "moment" where they'd put aside their animosity and began anew. Harry had originally been forced by his grand-mère to continue to invite Draco over to Black Manor. Harry had highly resented it, and his dislike of the other boy had seemed to be reciprocated. Harry now knew better; Draco had just been upset that his friendship wasn't accepted while Neville the Squib's had been, and had lashed out. Narcissa had fortunately taken over the lessons Draco had been receiving from Lucius, and her firm and practical guidance – as opposed to Lucius's inane spouting of Malfoy superiority – had eventually helped Draco lose the harsh edges of his selfishness and arrogance. Draco was still egotistical and haughty, but not so much that he thought he knew all, or refused to acknowledge any wrong-doing when his actions backfired, blaming everyone else instead. Draco even learned to swallow his pride and apologise on rare occasion. Their mutual interests such as Quidditch (Neville had become a non-participant as he'd become terrified of heights ever since he'd been dropped from a window) had helped ease the way, until one day Harry had realized with a start that they had become rather good friends.

Harry was interrupted from his thoughts by his grand-mère, who held out a thick and heavy yellowish parchment envelope. It was addressed in emerald green to _Mr H. Potter-Black, The Ivory Wing, Black Manor._ There was a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H.

"My Hogwarts letter!"

Harry eagerly tore the letter open. He'd been rather afraid he wouldn't receive it – not because he was worried he lacked enough magic, but because of the hostilities between his grand-mère and Dumbledore. Harry had worried over the possibility of Dumbledore forbidding Harry entrance into Hogwarts until the Headmaster had gained some concessions from his grand-mère. But the worry was all for nothing, as Harry had received his Hogwarts letter!

"Dear Mr Potter-Black," Harry read aloud, "We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!" Harry shot an excited smile at his grand-mère and Neville before finishing. "Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July."

His grand-mère had already set out parchment and quill for him. Harry carefully wrote out his note of acceptance to the Deputy Headmistress McGonagall. He then glanced over at his grand-mère's eagle owl, before deciding to send the letter in style – he called for Credo, his phoenix.

"Take this to the Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts, Credo."

The red and gold bird trilled in agreement before disappearing in a burst of flame. As Harry looked on in satisfaction, Neville rolled his eyes at Harry's antics and Walburga hid her smile behind her hand.

"When can we go to Diagon Alley?" Harry eagerly asked his grand-mère. Ever since he'd found out about Diagon Alley from Draco, Harry had wanted to go. Draco had a flare for storytelling, and his vivid descriptions of the famous marketplace had only served to increase Harry's desire to visit the Alley himself. However, his grand-mère had thought it too dangerous; even with the additional security the Aurors had willingly agreed to provide, Walburga had held firm. But that didn't mean Harry couldn't ask, beg, and plead to be allowed to go. At first, Walburga had refused outright, but over time, her answer had changed to "When you receive your Hogwarts letter".

Walburga sighed in exasperation, though a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "We'll go on your birthday. We will, of course, be followed around by a _Daily Prophet_ reporter and photographer – they'll want to record your first trip to Diagon Alley." When Harry groaned, Walburga pointed out, "It would be wise to get everything over and done with now so your subsequent trips to Diagon Alley will not be as hindered."

That was one of the good things about never being allowed to go anywhere – for the most part, Harry didn't encounter reporters who wanted to catalogue his every movement. Harry had seen the magazine that had come out the day after his seventh birthday, and between the dozens of photos of himself with various people, they had also detailed what he'd eaten, what he'd worn, what he'd said, etc. Even the most mundane things had made its way into the magazine. It was like a stalker's guide to Harry Potter-Black's seventh birthday party. Harry could just picture what his first trip to Diagon Alley was going to be like.

Thankfully, before Harry could do something stupid – like telling his grand-mère that he'd changed his mind about going – the fireplace chimed and Draco's head appeared amidst the flames.

"You've got the letter too!" Draco said happily, spotting the familiar letter in Harry's hand. "Mum's going to take me shopping for school supplies near the end of August so I can meet future Hogwarts students. Pansy, Vince, Greg, and Blaise are going to come along as well. Maybe you can come too. And Neville as well, of course."

When Neville nodded, saying his family was going around then as well and that his gran would likely allow them to meet up, Draco looked at his great aunt with a pleading expression. It was something that had never failed to get Draco what he wanted from his parents, even though it had never worked on tante Walburga. Of course, even Harry's only rarely worked, and he had the big green eyes with long eyelashes thing going for him. Still, Draco really wanted Harry to be there with him, to share the unique experience of shopping for Hogwarts for the very first time.

"I can't," Harry said regretfully, "grand-mère's taking me on my birthday." Although he wasn't a big fan of Blaise, the others were okay, and shopping for Hogwarts with Draco and Neville would have been something else.

Even Walburga's formidable will crumpled when it encountered three sets of hang-dog expressions. "All right! Harry, we'll go to Diagon Alley on your birthday, but we won't shop for your school supplies – except for your wand. The rest you may get with Draco and Neville."

Cheers met her response. Harry hugged her fiercely, before enthusiastically thanking her.

"I want Robards, Trimble, and Goshawk to go with you, along with several of the Aurors."

Harry eagerly agreed, and Walburga departed with a warning to keep it short as it was nearly time for dinner.

"So which Houses do you think we'll be in?" Neville asked as soon as the doors closed.

"Slytherin, of course," Draco replied haughtily. "No Malfoy has been anywhere else."

"I'm sure Blaise and Pansy will join you," Harry said, before turning to Neville. "And you'll be in Gryffindor."

"I don't know," Neville said with a worried expression. "I don't think I'm brave enough."

"Oh please, Longbottom. You have as much chance of _not_ being in Gryffindor as Harry does in being _Hufflepuff_."

"Hey, there's nothing wrong with being a Hufflepuff," Harry protested. "I'm certain Ernie and Hannah will be in that House, and there's nothing wrong with them." When Draco only rolled his eyes, Harry said with exaggerated mulishness, "And I so could be in Hufflepuff."

"Oh please! You are a Slytherin, Black, and you know it."

Neville agreed, and Harry blew a raspberry at them before acquiescing. "Still, I plan to be in Ravenclaw," added Harry.

"What? Whyever for?" Draco said in shock. He couldn't imagine anyone voluntarily choosing another House over Slytherin.

"Duh, Draco! The Boy Who Lived in Slytherin? The world as we know it will end!" Harry said theatrically. "Anyway, since I can't be in Gryffindor, Ravenclaw is the next best thing – and I'm smart enough for that House."

"Says the boy who blew up a cauldron while boiling water," Draco said pointedly.

"Hey!" Harry complained as Neville burst into giggles. "That was _one time_, and it wasn't my fault the cauldron reacted badly to a spell gone awry."

"Sure it wasn't," Draco said with laughter in his voice.

"You both suck, by the way. I'm going to go find someone who appreciates me much more than you do."

"Who? Dobby, my house-elf?"

"Out!" Harry said peevishly, although a smile betrayed his anger.

"Hold your hippogriffs, we're going. See you at the party, Harry!"

* * *

The week until Harry's birthday seemed to drag on endlessly. The only break came in the form of Neville's party, which his grand-mère had somehow managed to convince Augusta Longbottom to hold at Black Manor, allowing Harry to attend with minimum amount of fuss.

Soon, the morning of Harry's eleventh birthday arrived. Once again, Harry woke up at an ungodly hour and rushed downstairs, greeted his grand-mère with enthusiasm and unceremoniously shovelled food into his mouth. As soon as Harry finished, he began to literally bounce in his seat in excitement.

Walburga sighed in fond exasperation. "We will be leaving for Diagon Alley in an hour-" Walburga continued speaking, ignoring Harry's cheer, "but we have some matters to attend to first."

Noticing his grand-mère's solemn expression, Harry quieted down, and Walburga looked affectionately at her Heir before handing over an ornate black marble box covered with runes. Harry gently ran his fingers over the carefully carved runes before opening the box. Three rings lay inside; one had the Black family crest with what appeared to be two trapiche emeralds set beside it on a platinum band – the Black Heir ring, Harry realised dazedly. Another had the Potter family crest beside brilliant red diamonds set in gold. The last was a stone of peculiar colour that Harry swore changed from emerald green to purplish red. It was set in a peculiar white band.

"The family signet rings? But I'm only eleven!"

"You are the last of the Potter and Evans lines; it is only proper that you should wear them. The Black Heir ring would have been yours once you turned seventeen, but there is no harm in you wearing it now. You are from an illustrious heritage, a fact Dumbledore should be reminded of at every opportunity. And while you are at Hogwarts, you will be more vulnerable, and I want to ensure that everyone is more than aware of exactly who they will be crossing should they attempt to harm you.

"Now then, put them on. Let's see how they look."

Harry reverently lifted each ring. The Black Heir ring he wore on his left ring finger, while the Potter ring he wore on his left pinkie. The Evans ring was placed on his right ring finger. Each resized themselves to fit snugly. When Harry looked up, his grand-mère had tears in her eyes. She surreptitiously wiped them before standing up.

"Now then, you need to get ready for your first ever trip to Diagon Alley. Kreacher!"

* * *

Walburga had refused to enter through the Leaky Cauldron, a shabby-looking pub that she claimed offended her delicate sensibilities. So instead, she had acquired a Portkey that would take them directly to the alley behind the pub. Harry tightly grasped a silver broomstick pendant that had his name engraved on the handle as his grand-mère spoke one of the activation passwords. The Ministry of Magic had personally designed the Portkey for Harry in honour of his eleventh birthday, and Harry had been informed by his grand-mère that it would also take him to St. Mungo's, the Black Manor, and the Ministry of Magic, depending on the activation password spoken.

They appeared in an alley, facing a brick wall. Surrounded by the additional Aurors the Ministry had provided for the occasion, Robards and Walburga went over the plans for the day once more.

"Gringotts first, without delay. Then it will be to Ollivander's where we'll be meeting the _Daily Prophet_ reporter and photographer, before heading back to the Manor."

Walburga threaded the broomstick pendant onto a silver chain and placed it carefully around Harry's neck. As she straightened up, Harry looked at her and his eyes pleaded with hers. Walburga tried to resist but it was no use; she heaved a sigh and turned to face Robards once more. "We'd best be going to that Quidditch store before Ollivander's."

Harry smiled triumphantly when Robards nodded. Harry watched avidly as Robards tapped a nondescript brick in the wall. And though Draco had described in minute detail how the brick wall turned into a gateway into Diagon Alley, Harry's eyes still grew wide with surprise when the brick wriggled and a hole grew from the middle, widening until an archway formed, through which Harry could see a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.

Harry could barely contain his excitement; thankfully, his grand-mère had his shoulder in a firm grasp, reminding him of the lessons in decorum when in public, lessons Harry had learned at her hand for as long as he could remember.

"Welcome, Harold, to Diagon Alley," she said, before gesturing Robards to go ahead.

Harry had, of course, been thoroughly told of everything Diagon Alley contained from Draco and Neville, as well as how much it lacked from his grand-mère. Harry knew she disdained many of the shops for being too plebeian, but to Harry – who had never seen anything like it – it was as though everything was lined with gold and precious jewels. Harry's eyes roved everywhere as they strove to take in every little thing. He barely noticed the archway close behind them in his enthusiasm.

More quickly than Harry liked, they passed by the shops without pausing. His obedience was sorely tested when they passed by Quality Quidditch Supplies, which featured in its window a new broomstick model, Nimbus 2000. It was the fastest racing broom yet, and Harry was very tempted to ask his grand-mère for it as his birthday gift, despite the fact that he was likely to receive it from his great-grandfather Pollock.

Finally, they arrived in front of a white marble building, which towered over all the other stores in Diagon Alley. Beside the burnished bronze doors stood a goblin, who was wearing a red and gold uniform. He bowed especially low to Harry and his grand-mère as they passed through the bronze doors, his pointed beard sweeping the marble floor. A pair of goblins hurriedly opened the silver doors before bowing so low that Harry thought they might topple over. Harry could see some kind of writing engraved on the silver doors, but he didn't get a chance to do more than glance at them before he was ushered inside a vast marble hall.

His grand-mère ignored all the goblins sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, and examining precious stones through eyeglasses. Instead, she remained standing in the middle of the hall, and a few seconds later, a goblin wearing a black and gold suit quickly appeared in front of her. "Mrs Black, how wonderful it is to see you again. Shall we head to my office?"

Robards's jaw by now looked as though it was permanently unhinged, and the other Aurors weren't faring much better. Harry stared at the Aurors curiously before following his grand-mère and the goblin towards the main door leading off the hall. A plaque on the door said the office belonged to Gobilnar Gringotts, Branch Manager.

The office was rather simple. Various portraits of goblins lined the walls, and a wooden desk stood as the centrepiece, with two overstuffed chairs angled opposite it. A fireplace was at the far end, where a clear vase containing Floo powder sat on the mantle.

Walburga seated herself in one of the chairs and Harry sat beside his grand-mère. Robards and two others stood in the room behind them, while the rest of the Aurors remained outside. Gobilnar scrutinized the three wizards before looking at Mrs Black in askance, and proceeded at her nod.

"Your latest set of investments have faired even better than expected. The results are being copied for your perusal as we speak."

"Good. Then I have only one more thing to attend to here at Gringotts. This is my grandson, Dominus Black. I need to introduce him to his family vaults."

Gobilnar's eyes widened briefly before he reached for a buzzer on the wall by his desk. "Send Griphook in immediately."

Barely a second had passed before a knock was heard and another goblin, whom Harry assumed was Griphook, appeared. "Take Mrs Black and her grandson to his family vaults. I will have everything ready for you when you return, Mrs Black."

Inclining her head slightly in reply, Walburga followed Griphook to another set of doors. Before entering, she ordered their security to remain behind. Ignoring their protests, Harry followed his grand-mère through the doors and down a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming torches. Little railway tracks were on the floor, and a small cart was already waiting for them.

The rattling cart hurtled through a maze of twisting passages. Harry's eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, but he kept them wide open, wanting to see if there really were dragons here as Draco had claimed.

They soon plunged even deeper, and – though it seemed impossible – gathered more speed. The air became even colder as they hurtled round tight corners. They went rattling over an underground ravine and Harry was tempted to lean over the side to try and see what was down at the dark bottom, but managed to resist. Finally, after what felt like hours, the cart stopped.

Harry jumped out of the cart along with Griphook, but his grand-mère sat for another moment to gather her composure. Harry sympathised with her – she was never that keen on flying, and the ride on the cart seemed a lot like when he flew on his broomstick.

The vault didn't have a number that Harry could see, though there was the familiar Black family crest in the centre. The family motto,_Toujours Pur_, stood out clearly. His grand-mère approached the door and pricked her left index finger with her wand. She let seven drops of blood fall to the ground, and twisting the Black signet ring around, she placed her hand on the centre of the crest. There was a bright light before the door clinked open, and his grand-mère gestured for Harry to enter before following. Griphook remained by the cart.

The vault was huge. Twice the size of the entrance hall of the Manor, books, priceless jewels, and magical artefacts covered the shelves on the sides. There were eight doors located on the far wall; the rest of the vault was filled with gold coins, with occasional mounds of silver. Between the door and the very centre of the room was a narrow pathway that ended in a circle lined with runes; a black marble column stood in the middle of the circle with a crystal bowl on top.

"Come along, Harry. You need to complete the ritual before you'll be allowed into this vault."

Harry stood inside the runic circle opposite his grand-mère. Walburga grasped his left hand, pricked his index finger with her wand, and let several drops of blood fall into the crystal bowl. With her Black signet ring facing the mouth of the bowl, she then intoned, "I am the Head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. I acknowledge my Heir, the Heir to the House of Black, Harold Opiuchius Potter-Black. _Toujours Pur_."

The blood in the bowl vanished, and Harry felt a tremendous blast of magic slam into him. It seemed to look for something, and Harry only managed to stay standing through sheer force of will. After what felt like hours but was likely only a few seconds, the magic found whatever it was looking for and left. Harry's Heir ring glowed brightly for a moment before the light too faded away.

"What was that?" asked Harry the moment he recovered his breath.

"It was a spell set-up long ago by our ancestors, Harry. It only recognizes those who are Black by birth; if you had not been, the magic would have killed you, or worse, rendered you into a Squib. The magic has now recognized you as the Heir to the family; therefore, when you come of age, you will be allowed access to the family vault. Until then, a vault has been created for your use."

Harry looked to where his grand-mère was pointing, and realized where there had only been eight doors there were now nine. The newest door had Dominus Black imprinted on it.

"What are they?" Harry gestured at the other eight doors.

"They are the personal vaults. Every time a Black is born, a vault is created for their use, with gold taken from the family vault. The individual vaults only disappear when he or she dies, and then all the remaining gold returns to the family vault. Normally, the lump sum that has been placed within the individual vault is not refilled; however, you are the Black Heir, and thus entitled to the contents of the entire family vault. The Galleons in your personal vault will not lessen, despite their use. That does not mean you are allowed to go out and buy every racing broom on the market; until you turn seventeen, I will be monitoring your withdrawals."

"Yes, grand-mère," Harry said meekly.

"Come along, then. Let us visit your other vaults before getting your key."

* * *

The other vaults yielded more Galleons and jewels. Harry also saw a portrait or two, but figured most of the portraits were at the family ancestral home. Harry wondered if there was one of his mother and James available. He vowed to look.

Along with the key to his personal vault (the Potter and Evans family vaults would remain inaccessible to Harry until he turned seventeen) Harry had been given a portfolio, summarising all he now owned, and would, once he came of age, control. So far, his grand-mère had been handling his investments for him. She'd been teaching him, but it was hard work, and Harry knew he still had much more to learn before he could care for them himself.

They were soon out of Gringotts. The wizards and witches who were shopping in the Alley kept staring at the Aurors, trying to glimpse who they were protecting. Fortunately, the Aurors were an effective shield, and Harry and his grand-mère were not seen as they made their way to Quality Quidditch Supplies.

The store owner was thankfully in too much of an awe to bother Harry, allowing Harry to admire the new Nimbus and other items of interest at leisure. However, considering Harry received autographs, uniforms, brooms, and other miscellaneous kits as presents, the store wasn't _that_ interesting. Still, Harry could see why Draco loved it so much.

Unfortunately, Cuffe and his photographer showed up right then and began to take photos, snapping the store owner out of his daze. The man began to talk a mile a minute, surreptitiously posing for photos with Harry before loading Harry with free gifts. Meanwhile, Cuffe was firing off questions to Harry and comments to his quill – such as what Harry had examined or ignored – which the quill faithfully wrote down, making Harry grit his teeth in annoyance. He was mercifully rescued by his grand-mère, and the Aurors hurriedly escorted them out of the store and away from the store owner's exuberance.

When Harry saw Ollivander's, he understood why there was such disdain on his grand-mère's face. The sign declared Ollivander's to have been making fine wands since 382 BC, and it seemed as though nothing had been changed – or cleaned – since then. The shop was narrow and shabby, and in the display window, there was a faded purple cushion on which a single wand sat that Kreacher would have thrown out in a heartbeat. And it didn't get better when they entered.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop. It truly was a tiny place, and his grand-mère sneered as she examined the only furniture in the room: a single spindly chair that looked as though it would break if a flobberworm sat on it. Harry glanced at the walls lined floor to ceiling with thousands of narrow boxes. Harry wondered if he might be claustrophobic.

Cuffe continued to babble on, and Harry answered him as politely as he could. When an old man whom Harry assumed was Ollivander finally appeared, he was a welcome sight.

"Good afternoon," the man said, his wide, pale silvery eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

"Hello, Mr Ollivander."

"Ah yes," Ollivander said. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter-Black." It wasn't a question. Harry's eyebrow rose – if Ollivander was hoping to creep out Harry, he'd have to try a lot harder. He was a Black, for Merlin's sake – creepy was the norm in his family. Harry's motions drew the man's unblinking stare to Harry's eyes.

"You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."

"Yes, I know," Harry replied, reaching into the folds of his robe to withdraw his mother's wand. It was still in pristine condition; Ollivander looked at it rather fondly.

He moved closer to Harry. "Your other father, James Potter, on the other hand, favoured a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favoured it – it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course."

Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry were almost nose-to-nose. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see Robards becoming rather antsy.

"And that's where…"

Ollivander's finger did not reach its intended destination; instead, his wrist was firmly caught and held in an iron grip, his finger inches from Harry's lightning scar.

"I don't like it when people try to touch my scar," Harry said lightly, though his tone carried an unmistakeable warning.

The store was silent for what seemed like eternity, when suddenly Ollivander stepped back, his wrist released. The ambience of the store returned to normal – the weird feeling Harry had been experiencing from the moment he'd entered the shop disappeared – and Ollivander got into full business mode. He began to flit around the shelves taking down boxes. "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr Potter-Black. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand," Ollivander said with a pointed look towards where Harry kept his father's wand.

"Right then, Mr Potter-Black. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible."

Harry took the wand but put it back down almost immediately. "No."

"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy."

Harry didn't even need to touch the wand this time. "No."

"Here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy."

Harry tried. And tried. But none of the wands felt right. The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair, but the more wands Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the happier he seemed to become.

"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhe- I wonder, now – yes, why not." With that, Ollivander carefully brought out a narrow box. "It's rather an unusual combination – holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Harry took the wand. He felt sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the wand and gently waved it through the dusty air and a stream of silver and gold sparks shot from the end like fireworks, throwing dancing spots of light on the walls. There was a flash as the photographer took a photo. Cuffe clapped and Ollivander cried, "Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well… how curious… how very curious…"

Ollivander put Harry's wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering, "Curious, curious…"

Harry wasn't about to be drawn into whatever bizarre trap Ollivander had set for him this time, but Cuffe wasn't as restrained. "Pardon me, Mr Ollivander, but _what's_ curious?"

Instead of looking at Cuffe who had asked the question, Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare.

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr Potter-Black. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather – just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother – why, its brother gave you that scar."

Harry stared back indifferently, but Cuffe and his photographer, along with the Aurors, drew in harsh breaths.

"Yes, thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Mr Potter-Black… After all-"

"Seven Galleons, isn't it, Ollivander?" Walburga interrupted, putting the Galleons beside the stack of wands on the chair. "As always, a pleasure, Ollivander," she said, her tone anything but sincere as she ushered Harry out of the store.

* * *

The days until Harry's second trip to Diagon Alley passed by relatively quickly, thanks to the busy schedule his grand-mère had planned for them. There were the requisite visits from the other Blacks to congratulate Harry on his acceptance into Hogwarts. As Harry had thought, he received the new Nimbus model from great-grandfather Pollux; he and Harry discussed at length the best way to smuggle in the broomstick to Hogwarts. Harry also received a surprisingly tame gift from Cassiopeia – an Aethonon, which he quickly named Aequus (calm, just). Harry spent an enjoyable few days learning how to ride, and then spent hours racing her all over the grounds – and the air – of the Manor. Wizarding clothiers came by to provide him with necessary robes and other apparel, as his grand-mère did not think Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions was good enough for the Black Heir. Harry spent an inordinate amount of time with his grand-mère, going over the politics and what was expected of him while at Hogwarts. They spoke of children whom Harry should or should not befriend; of the Headmaster and the careful manoeuvrings Harry must make to ensure Dumbledore thought Harry possible to still win over to his side; about how Harry must do everything in his power to get into Ravenclaw, to ensure he could befriend people from all Houses. Harry thoroughly read over _Hogwarts, A History_, and learned how to work a prototype of the Marauder's Map that had been among his father's things. Harry memorised the prototype of the Map – including all the secret passageways – and learned how to find out the password from even the most heavily Charmed of guardians. Harry thought the actual Map might still be at Hogwarts, since he hadn't found it in any of his parents' belongings. Harry reminded himself to find it at first opportunity – it was too valuable a tool to lose.

But there were days when Harry simply spent time with his grand-mère, hearing familiar stories about his father's childhood; all the mischief his father had gotten into when young – and not so young – and Harry could see how heartbroken his grand-mère had been when his father had decided to break ties with her. They perused the photo album Walburga had gifted her Heir with on his eleventh birthday: it held the photos of his father, his mother, and James, both in childhood and with their friends while at Hogwarts. It was the most valuable possession of Harry's, and one he looked at every night before bed. His second most valuable possession was an Invisibility Cloak; it had belonged to James Potter, though Harry wasn't sure how his grand-mère had gotten a hold of it. Harry had taken to wearing it at every opportunity, startling the house-elves as well as his grand-mère. And no matter how many times his grand-mère threatened to take the Cloak away from him, she never did, knowing how much it meant to him, and Harry loved her that much more for it.

Of course, that didn't mean he stopped trying to scare her or the house-elves out of their wits.

* * *

When Harry finally arrived at Gringotts near the end of August with his entourage of Aurors, he spotted Neville and Draco, along with Blaise, Pansy, Daphne, Vince, Greg, Mandy, Anthony, and Ernie. Not a single adult stood nearby.

"Hey guys," Harry said, his head poking out between Robards and Quentin.

"Harry!" They all chorused with smiles on their faces. After the greetings were exchanged, they made their way inside.

"How come you were sitting out there all alone? Where are the adults?"

"They're having lunch still; we begged to come ahead since we knew you would be here soon," said Neville.

"Plus, with as much protection as you have, they didn't think their presence was necessary," added Draco.

Harry nodded, and was soon greeted by Griphook. The group split into two – those who needed to withdraw money went with Harry and most of the Aurors; the rest remained behind in the lobby of Gringotts.

The Galleons withdrawn, they made their way into Diagon Alley. The crowds had thickened, but the Aurors made an effective blockade, allowing them to pass through the bodies unhindered. Their first stop was Madam Malkin's to get their school uniforms.

Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed in all mauve. They were fitted for robes in the back, much more efficiently than Harry had been by the designer wizarding clothiers. Of course, these fabrics were cheap, the style of the robe left much to be desired, and he was positively drowning in them. Harry didn't voice his complaint aloud, though he and Draco shared a grimace.

Harry had all the necessary potions supplies and books, and he didn't need an owl as he had Credo. Still, Harry decided to follow everyone else while they shopped, as shopping for Hogwarts for the very first time was an experience meant to be savoured. Besides, being with his friends was always fun. They made their way to Flourish & Blott's, which was quite overcrowded; most of the Aurors had to remain outside the store due to lack of space. Robards scowled, but allowed Harry to enter with only him. They rushed in getting all the necessary books, and were on their way towards the door when Draco was suddenly slammed from behind. Harry thought at first that it was some kind of a furry magical creature that had decided to attack his cousin, but soon realized it was a girl with lots of bushy brown hair and rather large front teeth instead. She looked even uglier than Pansy, and Pansy looked like a pug.

"Oh, I am so sorry! I just lost my footing – I was trying to reach that book, you see-"

The girl's voice was rather bossy, which was quite odd since she was trying to apologise to Draco. She was also clearly getting flustered at Draco's contemptuous glare. Harry knew what would happen even before Draco opened his mouth.

"Watch yourself, you filthy Mudblood."

Shocked gasps reached Harry's ears. Although their group was all pure-bloods, not everyone shared Draco's contempt for half-bloods and Muggle-borns. Although Muggle clothes weren't uncommon in the wizarding world – Harry too wore them sometimes – the fact that the girl looked confused rather than offended proved Draco's words to be true.

Still, Harry had no intention of allowing Draco to alienate their friends and allies. "Draco," Harry warned.

"Harry-" the blond began to complain, but soon shut his mouth at the look in Harry's eyes. Draco continued to glare at the girl with disdain, but didn't call her any names.

The girl, meanwhile, had lost her bewildered appearance, and her gaze sharpened as she focused her attention on Harry. "Harry… You're not Harold Potter-Black, are you?" Before Harry could even respond, she literally threw herself forward, and as Harry was bracing himself, her hand reached up and brushed his hair aside so that the lightning bolt scar was clearly visible. "You _are!_ I know all about you, of course – I got a few extra books already for background reading, and you're in _Modern Magical History_ and _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and _Great__Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_. But of course you already know that. You're the Boy Who Lived, after all!"

The effect of those last words was instantaneous. The crowds as one turned towards the girl and then to Harry, and they began to push and shove their way towards him. Robards, shooting the girl who was the cause of this chaos a venomous glare, began to try and usher Harry out. However, there were too many people and the exit wasn't close enough; Robards finally bellowed, "Use your Portkey, Harry!"

Before Harry disappeared, he stared at the filthy Muggle-born girl who seemed positively delighted rather than bewildered or ashamed at her indecorous behaviour. She was smiling happily, looking extremely pleased with herself. Harry swore he was going to do everything in his power to make sure she got her just desserts.

* * *

A few things: I don't intend for Dumbledore to be evil, so there's no Dumbledore bashing here. While there is clear dislike of Hermione, that doesn't mean they won't ever be friends. As for Ron… you'll see! 


	5. Chapter 5

Hi everyone!

Thank you all for your wonderful reviews! Sorry for the delay - I actually had this chapter written months ago, but I kept trying to alter one of the scenes. I ended up rewriting it about a dozen times, until it ended up being pretty close to what I had originally. Sigh. Oh well - nothing I can do about that! Care to guess which scene I'm talking about? Anyway, I'm still a few chapters ahead, so the next update will be posted soon. Also, as I stated in my disclaimer back in my first post, the premise of this story comes from Shadowface's Ophiuchus - which he has abandoned and has given me permission to use. So please make a note of that before sending me messages accusing me of taking another person's works!

* * *

**Chapter Five**

The first of September soon arrived, and Harry bid the house-elves a fond farewell as he, his grand-mère and the Aurors Portkeyed out of the Manor. They arrived in a warded alley by King's Cross station, and with his brand new trunk on a brand new trolley – as his grand-mère was not about to let him touch something that had passed the hands of disgusting Muggles – they headed towards platform nine and three quarters.

It was empty as it was barely ten o'clock, but as they had wanted peace and quiet, it was perfect. The Aurors discretely placed themselves around the Black Matriarch and her Heir, looking the other way to give them privacy.

"Well, Harry, this is it. You're finally going to Hogwarts."

"I'll miss you, grand-mère."

"You'll be too busy to miss me," she quipped, but her tremulous smile told Harry everything she could not bring herself to say.

"Now, mind yourself and work hard, and don't forget to send a letter every once in awhile."

"I will." Harry moved forward and embraced his grand-mère, hiding his teary face in the folds of her robe. "I love you."

Walburga hugged Harry back just as tightly. "I love you too," she choked out.

* * *

Harry found a compartment towards the back, and after storing his trunk, called for Credo. The phoenix instantly appeared, and Harry passed the time smoothing over his feathers. Through the window, Harry examined the crowds that were gathering: friends meeting up with each other, chatting excitedly over their summers, parents saying goodbye to their children with last minute warnings to behave, and Muggle-borns with their Muggle parents clearly out of their depth. Although they couldn't get onto the train as they didn't have tickets, the reporters and photographers were also present en masse, and they took his photo through the window and shouted questions that Harry did his best to ignore.

After a while, Harry spotted the familiar blond head of his friend. With Credo on his shoulder, Harry stood on the topmost step of the stairs, not coming down onto the platform but causing a flurry of activity from the press nonetheless.

"Draco!"

"Hey Harry!"

"Draco! Harry!" At the familiar voice of their friend, they turned as one and waved to Neville in greeting.

By now, everyone's attention was on Harry, but Harry ignored them in favour of saying hello to his friends. After saying farewells to their respective guardians, with the help from the Aurors who forcibly moved the press away from the train, Neville and Draco hopped on and Harry led them to the compartment he had nabbed.

As soon as they entered, Harry locked the door and cast an Imperturbable Charm. "I had Robards teach it to me last week. It's dead useful."

"Are they coming with us to Hogwarts?" Neville asked as he stored his trunk and his owl cage. The snowy white bird looked at Harry and hooted softly; Harry reached into the cage and petted the gorgeous owl.

"Nah. They're only here until the train leaves; they're not authorized to be on the train."

"But the Ministry has authority over Hogwarts," said Draco with a frown.

"Yeah, and Cornelius Fudge would do just about anything my grand-mère asked of him. But there's no actual threat against me. The Aurors are here right now because of the press, but since none of them can get onto the train, we'll be fine once we leave the platform. So there's no need for any of them to be here with me."

"But what if we need them to get rid of the riff-raff?" Draco asked plaintively.

"I'm sure we'll manage just fine, Draco," Harry commented dryly.

There were only five minutes to go when a great noise was heard. As one, the three boys turned towards the window. There was a plump woman with four boys and a girl, all with flaming red hair. Two of the boys were twins, shorter and stockier than the other two, who were thin and gangling. Although there were only six of them, they were making such a racket that they could be heard over all the hustle and bustle on the train and the platform.

"Weasleys," Draco spat disgustedly. "A pathetic excuse of pure-bloods."

Neville shot Draco a glare but didn't say anything else and just continued to stare out the window. After all, the Malfoy-Weasley feud was legendary. How it had all started no one really knew anymore, but Neville knew better than to try and defend the Weasleys unless he wanted a sulky Draco on his hands for the remainder of the afternoon.

Mrs Weasley had just taken out her handkerchief and was rubbing the end of the youngest boy's nose despite all his attempts to get away. The oldest boy was wearing his black Hogwarts robe already, and the expected Gryffindor House crest was accompanied by a shiny silver badge with the letter _P_.

"Weasley's a prefect? Hogwarts is going to the dogs," Draco muttered darkly.

"Come on," Harry said as he pulled the blond away from the window. "Want to play Exploding Snap?"

The train soon left the platform, and they passed the time pleasantly, talking and playing games. Eventually, Harry took down the Imperturbable Charm so they could go meet their other friends on the train.

Just then, a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door and said, "Anything off the trolley, dears?"

All three boys hurriedly went out into the corridor. They each grabbed more than a handful of their favourites and paid before bringing it all back into the compartment. They dug in heartily, stealing a few bits and pieces of each other's treats. Harry, who had only bought Chocolate Frogs – and Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans for nostalgia's sake – was more than happy to give his cards away when asked since he'd received the full collection as a birthday gift from the company some years ago.

Their bellies full, they began to wander around the train, peeking into various compartments, when they ran into Daphne, Pansy, and Mandy. They had just said hello to the girls when the Muggle-born from Flourish & Blott's passed by. No one missed Harry's scowl.

"It really was terrible what she did to you. My mum told me we would always remember our first Hogwarts shopping trip to Diagon Alley, and that girl spoiled yours!" exclaimed Pansy. Harry inwardly sighed at Pansy's rather terrible attempts at sympathising with him.

"I had everything I needed anyway," Harry said evenly. His temper, however, flared in remembrance. Pansy was right, after all – Harry would never be able to recapture those moments, and it was all thanks to someone no better than a Muggle. At least it hadn't been his very first trip to Diagon Alley that had been ruined.

Pansy eyed the royal blue robe Harry was wearing. "Yes, I _love_ your robes, Harry – who's it by?"

"Armani."

"They do make excellent robes, of course." Nods were readily exchanged between the girls. Daphne was just beginning to describe the newest set of dress robes her mother had purchased for her in Milan when the bothersome Muggle-born girl interrupted them.

"Armani? But they're Muggle!"

Draco sneered. "You think filthy Muggles have that much sense for fashion? And stop eavesdropping on our private conversation, you disgusting Mudblood. Get lost."

"Why do you keep calling me that?" she cried out, her shrill voice attracting the attention of children in the other compartments.

Harry rolled his eyes. Making sure his voice would carry, he said, "You deserve it after what you did to me. And haven't you heard? Eavesdropping is rude. Really, considering our obvious dislike of you, I can't believe you still won't take the hint. Whoever you are, stop intruding on where you're clearly not wanted. Or maybe I should make it clearer, since you seem to be rather thick in the head. Go. Away."

"Oh, are you going to cry?" Pansy asked sweetly.

The girl fled, and Pansy sat back in satisfaction. "Now Daphne, about that new Versace tulle lace dress…"

* * *

The gossip spread like fiendfyre along the train, so that by the time Harry, Neville, and Draco had returned to their compartment, everyone knew that a bushy-haired Muggle-born girl had done something terrible to Harold Potter-Black, and that the fastest way to get on the Boy Who Lived's bad side would be to befriend her. Everything from having insulted his honour to accusing him of being a Dark wizard to vomiting all over him were voiced as possible reasons for Harry's dislike. Harry thought Pansy might have generated the last one.

"Perhaps you shouldn't have done that, Harry," Neville said quietly.

"What?" was Draco's outraged response. "After what she did?"

"She's a Muggle-born – she probably didn't know what would happen."

"That still doesn't excuse her lack of manners."

"Well, no. I'm not defending her actions, Harry – just that you're better than simply going after her like this."

Harry conceded the point. But he also pointed out, "She didn't even have the decency to apologise though. I mean, after ruining my very first Hogwarts' shopping trip, her comment was about the designer of my robe rather than an apology for her rude behaviour. Even if she didn't know exactly what she had done, she could have still apologised for causing all that mayhem."

Neville still thought the punishment was too harsh – he was sure no one would befriend the girl as no one would knowingly associate with someone whom Harry disliked – but he could also see Harry's point. The girl had been unpardonably rude, and didn't even seem to be sorry for it.

"Besides Longbottom, why do you care about the Mudblood?" A horrified expression appeared on Draco's face. "You don't _fancy_ her, do you?"

"I'm eleven, you dolt! And stop calling her a Mudblood."

"Neville's right. It's a horrible moniker, one that no one in polite society should use. You're a Malfoy, as you often remind me – act like it."

Draco scowled, but didn't say anything else. Harry took that to mean Draco agreed.

"Did you hear about the break-in at Gringotts?" Harry asked, changing the topic.

"Who hasn't?" Draco replied sullenly.

"Grand-mère visited them immediately after, intending to withdraw everything, including the Evans and Potter vaults. Of course, that's the last thing the goblins wanted, so they told her pretty much everything to placate her into staying."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Apparently, the high security vault had been emptied earlier in the day, and so most of the security measures had been turned off as there was nothing left behind to be taken. Since they still don't know how the remaining security had been circumvented, they told grand-mère they were going to use more goblin magic to make the vaults more secure."

"Does she know what the thieves had been looking for?" Draco asked despite himself.

Harry shook his head. "But she did tell me that there had been only one item in the vault, and that the vault's been used to store that item for only the last few months or so. _And_," Harry paused to meet his friends' eyes, "the vault belonged to Albus Dumbledore."

"Whoa," Neville whispered. "Someone tried to rob the Headmaster?"

"That's not all. Grand-mère says that the goblins were acting quite odd about the item that had been stored in the vault, as though it didn't belong to the Headmaster. She thinks – and this is the kicker – that Dumbledore might have stolen it from someone, and that the break-in at Gringotts was an effort by the rightful owners to get the item back from Dumbledore."

Satisfied at the stunned and wide-eyed looks of his friends, Harry sat back and took a bite out of his Chocolate Frog.

* * *

They had returned to their game of Exploding Snap as the train chugged onwards when the compartment door slid open. Silently cursing himself for not casting the Imperturbable Charm again, Harry looked up to see the gangling boy from the platform accompanied by two others. One of the boys was black, and he was even taller than Weasley. The Weasley boy glanced at the three of them before staring at Harry with interest.

"Is it true?" he said. "They're saying all down the train that Harold Potter-Black's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?"

Harry couldn't believe Weasley's gall. Casually straightening himself – and making sure the signet rings were on display – Harry coolly stared down at the redhead, despite being shorter than the boy. "Yes," said Harry. He glanced at the other two boys to see if they would say something; the sandy haired one seemed slightly uncomfortable at the scrutiny.

"Oh, this is Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas," Weasley said carelessly, noticing where Harry was looking.

Draco snorted. "And that's Neville Longbottom, and I'm Draco Malfoy. We care, why?"

At Draco's comment, Neville gave a slight cough, which might have been hiding a snigger. Considering the financial and political situation of the Weasley family, the boy's pompous behaviour was beyond hilarious. Weasley, however, laughed aloud, but clearly not at the expense of himself. Draco narrowed his eyes.

"Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford." Draco finished with a pointed look at Weasley's threadbare robe.

Harry winced inwardly. It had been ages since Draco had started a sentence with the words, "My father". Draco must be quite upset if he was diverting back to his earlier childhood defences.

Harry decided to intervene before things got out of hand when Weasley used his greater height to his advantage and pushed past Draco, slamming the blond against the seat in the process. Weasley, now standing beside Harry, glanced contemptuously at the boy he'd just knocked over before commenting, "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Black. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

He held out his hand to shake Harry's, but Harry didn't take it. Indeed, Harry was too busy containing his outraged laughter to do much else. Neville, seeing that Draco looked ready to explode, decided to intercede. "Weasley, Harry's the Black Heir and the Boy Who Lived. He's the richest and the most well-connected wizard in the world! Your offer to help him make appropriate friends is like a flobberworm insisting he can help Dumbledore in a duel."

Harry couldn't hold in his laughter anymore. Harry's guffaws were loud enough to attract the curiosities of many of the children on the train. Harry would have been mortified at his behaviour had he not been too busy laughing. When Harry finally calmed down, he looked at the three boys who were now flushed with anger and humiliation. Weasley in particular looked quite ridiculous – his flaming face, red hair, and freckles made him appear startlingly hideous.

Harry said wryly, "I'm pretty sure I can tell who the wrong sorts are for myself. I have been doing just fine for the past ten years or so. Thanks for your… touching concern though."

Draco added, "Yes, and if Harry feels like hanging out with riff-raff like you, I'm sure he'll send you an owl – or better yet, his phoenix – post-haste. Oh, and you've got dirt on your nose, by the way, did you know?"

"I'd be careful if I were you, Black," Weasley said in anger. "Unless you're a bit politer you'll go the same way as your parents-"

"Are you threatening me, Weasley?" Harry said quietly but with such intensity that Weasley paled instantly while the other two slowly backed out of the compartment.

Draco and Neville both glared at Weasley. Neville's round cheeks were red with anger, and Draco was fingering his wand.

"Say that again, Weasley," Neville practically growled.

"Oh, you're going to fight us, are you?" Weasley sneered, though he didn't sound so confident.

"Us?" Draco's smile was positively feral as he queried.

Weasley turned around and saw that his new friends were nowhere to be seen. There were children outside the compartment, but they all looked at him in anger and disbelief. Weasley could hear the whispers, saying how he had threatened the Boy Who Lived. Weasley stood in indecision, but soon spotted his twin brothers and Percy. Believing that his elder brothers would be more than able to handle the three first years in front of him – even if one of them was the Boy Who Lived – Weasley turned back to face Harry, feeling much braver.

"Like I said, going to fight me, are you?"

"Unless you get out now," replied Harry, calmly holding his wand.

"But I don't feel like leaving."

Harry fell into a duelling stance. "Draco, Neville, get out of the way. I'll handle this."

Weasley was fumbling with his wand when his brothers showed up.

"Just what is going on here?" a voice arrogantly cried out. "Put your wands away! There is to be no fighting, unless you both want to be expelled from Hogwarts before you even start for doing underage magic!"

Harry didn't take his eyes off of his opponent as he replied, "On the contrary – I have a special permission from the Ministry that exempts me from underage magic laws. Your brother has just insulted my friends and made threats against my person. By Ministry Decree, I can have him arrested and sent to Azkaban. But I figured I'd give him a fighting chance."

As the youngest Weasley paled alarmingly, his twin brothers smacked him on the head. "You threatened the Boy Who Lived? What are you thinking, Ron? Dad could be fired for your foolishness!"

"Yes," Draco drawled. "I imagine it wouldn't look good for a Ministry employee to have a son that threatened to kill the Boy Who Lived."

"To kill?" the three Weasley brothers all chorused together. The youngest – Ron – repeatedly opened and closed his mouth, so that he was excellently imitating a goldfish.

"Well," the eldest Weasley said, "Ronald's still not allowed to do magic yet, so there will be no duelling."

"Then I suppose it's Azkaban for you, Weasley," Draco said smugly.

"I-"

One of the twins clamped a hand over Ron's mouth. "Look, Ron's an idiot. But he's not a bad person, and I'm positive he didn't mean to threaten you. How about an apology from Ron? To you and to your friends?"

The other twin added, "He's only eleven. He was just shooting his mouth off. He doesn't deserve to go to Azkaban for his stupidity."

Harry sighed. "I guess not. Alright, but the apology has to be sincere."

The Weasleys dragged their youngest brother to a corner, and began to whisper harshly. The oldest in particular looked quite angry, and Harry thought he could hear the words, "owl", "mum", and "expelled".

They then finally nudged their brother towards Harry, where he cleared his throat before saying, "I'm really sorry." The voice was weak and held a note of terror, but Harry thought he could hear a note of anger in there too. Clearly, their brothers could as well; Harry saw them wincing. But before anyone could say anything, a voice echoed through the train: "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train – it will be taken to the school separately."

Harry thus had no choice but to say, "Apology accepted," as he didn't want this to drag on and he still had to change into his school robe.

The Weasleys left, throwing him grateful glances – all except for the youngest – and Harry, Draco, and Neville quickly changed into their Hogwarts uniforms. They were about to leave when Credo refused to enter his cage and insisted on accompanying Harry, to Harry's embarrassment.

"Great. As if people don't stare at me enough," Harry grumbled as they made their way towards the door and out onto a tiny dark platform. Harry shivered in the cold night air, and wished he was good enough to conjure a warm cloak.

"Are you sure you don't want to go ahead, Credo?"

When the phoenix refused to leave, Harry instead cast "_Lumos_" so that he could see where he was going.

"Firs' years! Firs' years over here!"

A giant of a man was standing with a lamp. His face was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard, but you could make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles under all the hair. Harry shivered, though he pretended it was due to the cold.

"C'mon, follow me – any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs' years follow me!"

Everyone was slipping and stumbling as they followed the huge man down what seemed to be a steep, narrow path – all except for those around Harry, who, thanks to Harry's wand, had enough light that allowed them to see the way. But it was still so dark on either side of them that Harry thought there must be thick trees there. Nobody spoke much.

"Yeh'll get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," the man called over his shoulder, "jus' round this bend here."

There was a loud chorus of appreciation. The narrow path had opened suddenly on to the edge of a great black lake. Perched atop a high mountain on either side, its windows sparkling against the majestic backdrop, was a vast castle, its many turrets and towers seeming to pierce the starry sky. Harry extinguished his wand light so he could see it better. He was quite impressed, and he could see that Draco was as well.

"No more'n four to a boat!" the man called, pointing to a fleet of little boats sitting in the water by the shore. Draco wrinkled his nose in disgust, but gingerly stepped in. Harry and Neville quickly followed.

"Everyone in?" shouted the man, who had a boat to himself – and Harry thought the boat must clearly be Charmed to be able to float with such a weight – "Right then – FORWARD!"

And the boats moved off all at once, gliding across the lake which was as smooth as glass. Everyone was silent, staring up at the great castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood.

"Heads down!" yelled the huge man as the first boats reached the cliff; they all bent their heads and the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy which hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the castle, until they reached a kind of underground harbour.

They followed the man up a passageway in the rock, coming out at last on to smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle. They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the huge, oak front door.

"Everyone here?" He then raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the castle door.

* * *

So what did you all think? For those of you wondering about Ron's behaviour - more will be explained in future chapters. And don't worry - after the next chapter, I won't be quoting directly from the book much!


	6. Chapter 6

Hi everyone!

Sorry for the delay! RL problems and one crucial rewrite (anyone want to guess which scene I rewrote?) meant I couldn't post til now. The next chapter will be up sooner, I promise!

And again, this will be the last chapter that will heavily feature lines from the books - so bear with me!

Please don't forget to review!

* * *

**Chapter Six **

The door swung open revealing a tall, black-haired witch in emerald-green robes. Harry knew immediately that she was Minerva McGonagall, the Deputy Headmistress. She had a very stern face, and from all he'd read and heard, Harry knew she was not someone to cross.

"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," said the huge man.

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."

The entrance hall of Hogwarts was huge, even bigger than the one at the Manor. The stone walls were lit with flaming torches, and though Harry preferred the more elegant sources of lighting like the chandeliers at home, as the ceiling of the hall was too high to make out, Harry supposed they didn't have many options.

They followed the Deputy Headmistress across the flagged stone floor. Harry could hear the drone of hundreds of voices from a doorway to the right – clearly the rest of the school was already here – but McGonagall showed the first years into a small empty chamber off the hall. Most of the first years stood rather closer together than they would usually have done, and peered about nervously.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," McGonagall said. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your Houses. The Sorting is very important ceremony because, while you are here, your House will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your House, sleep in your House dormitory, and spend free time in your House common room.

"The four Houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each House has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your House points, while any rule-breaking will lose House points. At the end of the year, the House with the most points is awarded the House Cup, a great honour. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever House becomes yours.

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting." Her eyes lingered for a moment on Weasley's smudged nose and haphazardly worn robe, before lighting upon Harry and the phoenix still perched on his shoulder. "I understand that your phoenix was allowed into Hogwarts in lieu of another pet, Mr Potter-Black, but your phoenix cannot follow you into the Great Hall during the Sorting."

"I know, ma'am, but no matter how much I try, Credo refuses to leave me."

McGonagall pursed her lips, though Harry didn't think it was in anger. "Perhaps you could let your phoenix know there's another of its kind present at Hogwarts, in the Headmaster's office. I'm sure Fawkes will be glad to meet Credo."

"What do you think, Credo? Want to go meet Fawkes?"

Credo stared at Harry for a moment before glancing at the Deputy Headmistress. Clearly what he'd seen had satisfied him, for he trilled out an agreement before disappearing in a flash of flames.

Amidst the excited and awed chattering, Professor McGonagall said, "I shall return when we are ready for you. Please wait _quietly_."

"How exactly do they sort us into Houses?" the sandy-haired boy – Finnigan, Harry thought was his name – asked the boy beside him once the chatter trailed off. Weasley, who was standing nearby, butted in with a rather unhelpful answer.

"Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking."

Harry snorted – surely no one will believe _that_ nonsense! But when he looked around, everyone looked terrified. No one was talking much except the annoying bushy-haired Muggle-born girl who was standing by herself in a corner, whispering very fast about all the spells she'd learnt and wondering which she'd need.

"What idiots!" Draco said rather loudly, before turning to face Harry. "Really, a tes-"

Several people behind them screamed, causing Draco to jump about a foot in the air.

"What the-?"

Neville gasped. About twenty ghosts had just streamed through the back wall. Pearly-white and slightly transparent, they glided across the room talking to each other and hardly glancing at the first years. They seemed to be arguing. The fat monk – Fat Friar, the Hufflepuff ghost, Harry knew – was saying, "Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him a second chance-"

"My dear Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he's not really even a ghost -- I say, what are you all doing here?"

A ghost wearing a ruff and tights had suddenly noticed the first years.

"We're the first years, Sir Nicholas."

The ghost looked taken aback at being addressed by name by a first year, and Harry could feel the surprised stares from the rest of the students.

"First years!" said the Fat Friar, smiling at Harry. "About to be Sorted, I suppose?"

"Yes, Fat Friar. The Deputy Headmistress will be returning for us soon," Harry hinted, feeling Neville trembling beside him.

"Yes, move along now," said the sharp voice of Professor McGonagall. "The Sorting Ceremony's about to start."

One by one, the ghosts floated away through the opposite wall. McGonagall stared at Harry for a minute before telling them, "Now, form a line, and follow me."

They walked out of the chamber, back across the hall and through a pair of double doors into the Great Hall. The Great Hall was lit by thousands and thousands of candles which were floating in mid-air over four long tables, where the rest of the students were sitting. The teachers sat at another long table at the back of the Hall. The tables were laid with glittering golden plates and goblets. Truly, reading or hearing about it didn't do the Great Hall enough justice.

From where Harry was standing, the hundreds of faces staring at them looked like pale lanterns in the flickering candlelight. Dotted here and there among the students, the ghosts shone misty silver. Mainly to avoid all the staring eyes, Harry looked upwards at the ceiling that was bewitched to look like the sky outside. Seeing the velvety black sky dotted with stars, it was hard to believe there was a ceiling there at all, and that the Great Hall didn't simply open on to the heavens. Harry briefly wondered if he could get the ceiling in his bedroom at the Manor bewitched as well. He made a mental note to speak to his grand-mère about it first thing.

Harry looked back down as McGonagall silently placed a four-legged stool with a pointed wizard's hat on top in front of the first years. The hat was patched, frayed, and extremely dirty – Kreacher wouldn't have let it in the house.

"So that's the famed Sorting Hat," Harry murmured to Neville and Draco.

As they all stared at the Hat, the Hat twitched. A rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth – and the Hat began to sing:

_Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,_

_But don't judge on what you see,_

_I'll eat myself I you can find_

_A smarter hat than me._

_You can keep your bowlers black,_

_Your top hats sleek and tall,_

_For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_

_And I can cap them all._

_There's nothing hidden in your head_

_The Sorting Hat can't see,_

_So try me on and I will tell you_

_Where you ought to be._

_You might belong in Gryffindor,_

_Where dwell the brave at heart,_

_Their daring, nerve and chivalry_

_Set Gryffindors apart;_

_You might belong in Hufflepuff,_

_Where they are just and loyal,_

_Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_

_And unafraid of toil;_

_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_

_If you've a ready mind,_

_Where those of wit and learning,_

_Will always find their kind;_

_Or perhaps in Slytherin_

_You'll make your real friends,_

_Those cunning folks use any means_

_To achieve their ends._

_So put me on! Don't be afraid!_

_And don't get in a flap!_

_You're in safe hands (though I have none)_

_For I'm a Thinking Cap!_

The whole hall burst into applause as the Sorting Hat finished its song. It bowed to each of the four tables and then became quite still again.

"So we've just got to try on the Hat!" Weasley said to Finnigan, who seemed very reluctant to be near the red-headed boy. "I'll kill Fred. He was going on about wrestling a troll."

Draco snorted. Neville turned green. Harry could practically hear the insecure thoughts running around Neville's head.

"Don't worry, Neville – like we've said, you're a Gryffindor, through and through."

Neville looked relieved at the reassurance, though he was still rather green, and they watched as McGonagall stepped forward holding a long scroll of parchment.

"When I call your name, you will put on the Hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," she said. "Abbot, Hannah!"

Harry smiled at his blonde friend as she stumbled out of the line, blushing madly in embarrassment. Her pigtails bounced about her shoulders as she put on the Hat and sat down. A moment's pause --

"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the Hat.

The table on the right cheered and clapped as Hannah went to sit down at the Hufflepuff table. Harry clapped as well, and smiled seeing the ghost of the Fat Friar waving merrily at her.

Mandy went to Ravenclaw, and the table second from the left clapped this time; several Ravenclaws stood up to shake hands with Mandy as she joined them. Harry smiled and mouthed to her to save him a seat.

Lavender Brown – "a Mud-- Muggle-born," Draco whispered in his ear – was the first new Gryffindor, and the table on the far left exploded with cheers; Harry could see the Weasley twins catcalling.

Millicent Bulstrode – a half-blood – became a Slytherin. Even though not all Slytherins were pure-bloods, Draco looked disgusted at the thought of sharing a house with Bulstrode. Of course, it could have been because Millicent looked worse than the annoying bushy-haired girl. With a square build and heavy jaw, she rather unpleasantly reminded Harry of a hag.

While the Hat mostly shouted out the House at once, sometimes, it took a little while to decide. Finnigan, for example, sat on the stool for almost a whole minute before the Hat declared him a Gryffindor. Draco vindictively speculated to Harry that the Hat had probably been debating on sending the boy home as he was too pathetic to belong to a House.

"Granger, Hermione!"

The bushy hair flew behind her as she almost ran to the stool and jammed the Hat eagerly on her head. Harry had to bite his lips to stifle his mocking laughter.

"SLYTHERIN!" shouted the Hat.

The entire Great Hall fell into stunned silence. Draco looked absolutely horrified. Harry's relief that she hadn't been Sorted into Ravenclaw – if she had been, Harry wasn't sure what he would have done – soon turned into incredulity. A Muggle-born in Slytherin? How-- but it just wasn't done! Half-bloods, certainly, and they were barely tolerated as it was! A Muggle-born in Slytherin – she wouldn't last a day!

Granger made her way across the Hall, her head held up proudly. She faltered, however, when empty seats were quickly taken up – she had to settle for the furthest corner, and even then, her Housemates gave her a wide berth. Her lips trembled, although tears didn't fall.

Clamour broke out across the Hall and did not cease, even when McGonagall pointedly cleared her throat. Her harsh glares eventually quietened the mutterings, although most of the students stared at Granger in horrified fascination rather than the Sorting.

When Neville's name was called, Harry whispered encouragements to him. Unfortunately, that didn't seem to have done much, as Neville fell over on his way to the stool. The Hat took a long time to decide with Neville; when it finally shouted "GRYFFINDOR", Neville ran off still wearing it, and had to jog back amid gales of laughter to give it to "MacDougal, Morag".

Draco, of course, swaggered forward when his name was called and got his wish at once: the Hat had barely touched his head when it screamed, "SLYTHERIN!" Winking at Harry, Draco went to join Vince and Greg – who were thankfully sitting as far away from Granger as possible – looking mightily pleased with himself.

Eventually… "Potter-Black, Harold!"

As Harry stepped forward confidently, whispers suddenly broke out like little hissing fires over all the tables.

"_Potter-Black_, did she say?"

"_The_ Harold Potter-Black?"

Harry hid his grimace at that. The last thing Harry saw before the Hat dropped over his eyes was the Hall full of people craning to get a good look at him. Next second he was looking at the black inside of the Hat. He didn't have to wait long.

"Hmm," said a small voice in his ear. "Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. An excellent mind, too. And quite loyal to those you call your friends. There's talent, oh my goodness, yes – and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting… So where shall I put you?"

"Ravenclaw, please."

"Ravenclaw?" The Hat sounded startled. "Certainly you enjoy learning and are intelligent enough for Rowena's House, but you would be much better suited in Slytherin. You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that."

"I am also the Boy Who Lived – considering the fact that Voldemort isn't dead and that there are quite a number of his supporters' children in that House, it would be suicide for me if I were to go there. Not to mention the Head of Slytherin is a Death Eater – spy or not. Besides, I'm a Black – I will be great, no matter what House you sort me into."

The Hat was quiet for a minute. "Your bravery is tempered by an intelligent and cunning mind, and though you work hard, you guard your thoughts and heart too fiercely from others for Hufflepuff. Are you sure you don't wish to be a Slytherin?" The Hat sighed. "Well, if you're sure – better be RAVENCLAW!"

Harry heard the Hat shout the last word to the entire Hall. Silence reigned once more; Harry carefully took off the Hat and walked towards the Ravenclaw table with poise. Once the shock wore off – truly, everyone must have thought he'd be either a Gryffindor or a Slytherin – Harry was getting the loudest cheers yet – and from all the Houses. A select few did not cheer, and Harry noted those faces, but he soon became distracted by hugs from Mandy. After allowing what seemed like the entire table to shake his hand, Harry sat down beside Mandy and across from Morag MacDougal. He nodded at Draco, who shot him a grin in return. The Grey Lady, the Ravenclaw ghost, patted his arm, giving Harry the sudden, horrible feeling he'd just plunged it into a bucket of ice-cold water.

Harry could see the High Table properly now. At the end nearest him sat the huge man, Hagrid. And there, in the centre of the High Table in a large gold chair, sat Albus Dumbledore. Dumbledore's silver hair was the only thing in the whole Hall that shone as brightly as the ghosts. He was looking at Harry rather intensely; Harry saluted the Headmaster with his goblet, and watched as Dumbledore did the same. Harry inwardly smiled.

The Weasley boy was being Sorted. Harry was amused to see that he was pale-green by now, which did not complement his red-hair and freckles at all. A second later, the Hat shouted "GRYFFINDOR!"

Weasley collapsed into the chair a few seats past Neville in relief. Harry felt sorry for Neville; he had to put up with that Weasley boy for the next seven years. Perhaps he would teach Neville the Imperturbable Charm – Neville would need it, Harry was sure.

Finally, the Sorting Ceremony ended. When McGonagall rolled up her scroll and took the Sorting Hat away, Dumbledore got to his feet. He was beaming at the students, his arms opened wide, as if nothing could have pleased him more than to see them all there. And Harry didn't think Dumbledore was faking it at all.

"Welcome!" he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"

Dumbledore sat back down. Everybody clapped and cheered. And Harry exchanged a look with Draco that said it all.

The start-of-term banquet was nothing like the meals at the parties his grand-mère threw at the Manor; rather, they were like his birthday dinners all combined: roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon, and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, chips, Yorkshire puddings, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and, for some strange reason, mint humbugs. Harry sampled a bit of everything, and was glad to see that it was as good as the food back home. Harry also made sure he ate enough of the vegetables too – he was sure his grand-mère would be able to somehow tell that he wasn't eating enough vegetables.

When Harry looked over at the Slytherin table, he saw that the Bloody Baron, the Slytherin ghost, was sitting right next to Draco, who was clearly not happy with the seating arrangements.

"Poor Draco," Harry murmured to Mandy, who giggled in response.

Indeed, everyone was laughing, eating heartily, and utterly enjoying themselves – except for Granger, who merely moved her food around the plate rather listlessly. There was still at least a few feet between her and the rest of her House, as though she were diseased – resulting in some of the Slytherin students being squished together rather uncomfortably.

When everyone had eaten as much as they could, the remains of the food faded from the plates leaving them sparkling clean as before. A moment later the puddings appeared. Blocks of ice cream in every flavour, apple pies, treacle tarts, chocolate éclairs and jam doughnuts, trifle, strawberries, jelly, rice pudding…

Harry, who'd eaten less than he normally would have so he could enjoy the desserts, helped himself to treacle tarts and strawberries, as the conversation around him turned to their families.

"I'm a half-blood," said Lisa Turpin. "My mum's a Muggle. Dad didn't tell her he was a wizard until after they were married. Quite a nasty shock for her, of course."

"What about you, Terry? The name Boot doesn't sound familiar to me," said Mandy.

"My parents are Muggles – teachers, the both of them. They were quite surprised when I got my letter."

Michael Corner – who had come to Harry's party although Harry hadn't kept in touch with him – started at that, and began speaking with Morag in what he probably thought was a real subtle manoeuvre. Harry rolled his eyes and Anthony Goldstein – who had also come to the party but whom Harry had kept in touch with – turned his laughter into a cough and Mandy smiled in reply.

Now more than full, Harry looked around the Hall before glancing back up at the High Table. There was a professor in an absurd purple turban, talking to a teacher with greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and sallow skin. Harry knew instantly that the latter man was Professor Severus Snape, Head of Slytherin House and Potions master. He'd heard stories of his parents at Hogwarts, and knew his father and James had been rather fierce rivals of Snape's. His grand-mère had warned him about Snape, about how Snape would be quite prejudiced towards Harry, and that he would likely do his best to try to make Harry's life miserable. Snape taught Potions, but considering how seeped he had been in Dark Arts while in school, his grand-mère thought he was after the Defence Against the Dark Arts job. She had sternly told him to contact her at once if Snape made any inappropriate comments or if any blatant unfairness was present, as she was on Hogwarts' Board of Directors and had the power to get him sacked.

As Harry was thinking, Snape looked past the other teacher's turban and straight into Harry's eyes, and a sharp, hot pain suddenly shot across the scar on Harry's forehead. Harry bit his cheek to stop crying out in pain; Credo appeared on his shoulder in a burst of flames, and the pain thankfully disappeared as quickly as it had come, as though fleeing from Credo's presence. Harder to shake off was the feeling Harry had gotten – a feeling that Harry didn't like at all. Although Harry wasn't certain if it had been Snape who had caused his scar to flare, he made a mental note to send a letter to his grand-mère anyway.

"Thanks, Credo," Harry said quietly to his phoenix. He ran his fingers along Credo's feathers to calm down and ignored everyone's attentions on him and his phoenix. He was happy to note Dumbledore looked quite surprised at the appearance of a phoenix – McGonagall hadn't mentioned it to him, which Harry thought was rather promising.

"Who's that teacher talking with Professor Snape?" Harry asked Penelope Clearwater, a fifth year prefect, both to disperse all the attention and in genuine curiosity.

The question snapped Penelope out of staring entranced at his phoenix. "Oh, you know Professor Snape already, do you?" Though it was very subtle, from the way she said his name, Harry got the idea that she didn't much like him. "The teacher beside him is Professor Quirrell. He teaches Defence."

At last, the puddings too disappeared and Dumbledore got to his feet again, causing the Hall to fall silent.

"Ahem – just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start of term notices to give you. First years should note that the forest in the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well." Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Weasley twins.

"I have also been asked by Mr Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors. Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of term. Anyone interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch. And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

A few of the students laughed; Harry exchanged glances with Neville and Draco. Could Dumbledore be keeping whatever he'd removed from that vault in Gringotts here at Hogwarts?

"He's not serious?" Boot muttered to Penelope.

"Must be," said Penelope, frowning at Dumbledore. "It's odd, because he usually gives us a reason why we're not allowed to go somewhere – the forest's full of dangerous beasts, everyone knows that. I do think he might have told us prefects, at least."

"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" cried Dumbledore. Harry noticed that the other teachers' smiles had become rather fixed.

Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick as though he was trying to get a fly off the end and a long golden ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the tables and twisted itself snake-like into words. Harry wondered what spell he used to do that.

"Everyone pick their favourite tune," said Dumbledore, "and off we go!"

_And the school bellowed:_

_Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,_

_Teach us something please,_

_Whether we be old and bald_

_Or young with scabby knees,_

_Our heads could do with filling_

_With some interesting stuff,_

_For now they're bare and full of air,_

_Dead flies and bits of fluff,_

_So teach us things worth knowing,_

_Bring back what we've forgot,_

_Just do your best, we'll do the rest,_

_And learn until our brains will rot._

Everybody finished the song at different times. At last, only the Weasley twins were left singing along to a very slow funeral march. Dumbledore conducted their last few lines with his wand and when they had finished, he was one of those who clapped loudest.

"Ah, music," Dumbledore said, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"

The Ravenclaw first years followed Penelope through the chattering crowds, out of the Great Hall and up the marble staircase. Harry was quite tired, but strove not to show it, even if the rest of the first years were equally exhausted and sleepy. They passed by the various portraits, some of which whispered and pointed as they walked by, which Harry thought was quite rude. Penelope led them through doorways hidden behind sliding panels and hanging tapestries, and as they climbed more staircases, Harry tried not to yawn or drag his feet. Having memorised the passageways and corridors of Hogwarts, Harry didn't pay as much attention as the others on how to make their way to the Ravenclaw Tower.

"Here we are," Penelope said, and all the first years perked up slightly. She was standing in front of a door that had a bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle. No handle or a keyhole was in sight.

"This is the entrance to the Ravenclaw Tower. Instead of a conventional password, you must answer a question from the knocker. If the answer is correct, the door will swing open; if not, you will have to wait until someone can let you in." With that, Penelope turned to face the door.

"Who said this famous phrase: scientia potentia est?"

"Sir Francis Bacon."

"Excellent as always, Miss Clearwater. You may enter."

The door swung open to reveal a wide, circular, and very airy Ravenclaw Common Room. It was tastefully decorated with blue and bronze silk wall hangings and a midnight-blue carpet decorated with stars, which nicely matched the star-strewn domed ceiling. Arched windows with a spectacular view of the night sky graced the walls.

Besides the door that led to the dormitories – and Harry admired a life-sized white marble statue of Rowena Ravenclaw that stood next to it – the round room was full of squashy armchairs and tables. There was a fireplace along one wall, and a huge bookcase on the opposite end, with lots of desks along the walls in between. The first years were soon sent to their rooms, with strict instructions to be up early as it was tradition for the entire House to head to breakfast together the morning after.

Too tired to talk much, they trudged up to their rooms, and pulling on their pyjamas, fell into their four-poster beds.

"Good night, Credo," Harry murmured, before falling asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

* * *

Hermione in Slytherin! Tell me what you think!


End file.
